


No Matter the Stars

by FallingStories



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2 Weeks of Destiel AUs, Angel Dean, Angel Sam, Baker!Dean, Cats, Con Artist AU, Curses, Dean Smith - Freeform, Dogs, Endverse!Castiel, Engagement Rings, FBI AU, Feels, Firefighter!Dean, First Date, Flirting, Fluff, Graduation, High School AU, Hunter Castiel, I apologize in advance for the porn, I'm so weak for fluff seriously guys, It is at this point that I recommend reading all of them from the beginning, M/M, Merman Dean, Not even a little sorry, Old Married Couple AU, Special Agent Castiel Novak, Special Agent Dean Winchester, Tattooed!Cas, Writer!Dean, additional fluff here, barista!cas, beekeeper!Cas, cameo from Anna, coffee shop AU, different au each day, fairytale AU, featuring a guinea pig, gratuitous depictions of food, hipster!Dean, mechanic!Dean, merman au, merman cas, nurse!Cas, okay so ch. 12 is just sex, pet store au, punk!Cas, rating changed to explicit, reverse!verse, teaching au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingStories/pseuds/FallingStories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>14 days of Destiel AU prompts. Highlights include Punk!Cas, Mermen, and Reverse!verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Punk!Cas AU

 

Castiel closes his eyes as he waits to cross the street. It would be one thing if his boss had just _asked_ if he would work on the Raphael deal, but no. The bastard had to practically insist he work overtime, to the point where Cas was wondering if Crowley was purposely trying to destroy his relationships. He already knew Crowley hated him. That was unavoidable, you can't be sexually harassed on Day One and expect the guy to be thrilled to hang out with you after you report him.

But Castiel was fuming. After all his work, endless hours trying to negotiate and ignoring snipes at his “unbusinesslike” appearance, Raphael just ditched the deal. Apparently $50,000 wasn't enough to satisfy him. If Raphael kept going with his fucking buyout, the angst at the office would _triple_.

He shakes his head, trying to stifle his boiling blood. He can't take this shit home with him. His friends don't deserve the anger he'd let loose if he let fucking _Crowley_ get to him. He tries to smile. Maybe his day sucked ass, but at least he's going to see Dean. Dean promised him a Lord of the Rings marathon this weekend, and Cas is going to force him to follow through.

Finally the light at the crosswalk turns green and Castiel bolts across the pavement, narrowly dodging some assbutt in a green Volvo with no respect for pedestrian traffic. He can see the squat brownstone apartment half a block ahead, and sighs in relief. The minute he walks in the door, he can consider his day officially over.

He wonders where Dean hid the secret stash of vodka this week. He needs to drown himself in liquor if he plans to finish out the year with a job. Hopefully Dean can stop him from drunk-dialing his boss and telling him where he can shove his overtime.

Cas runs up the stairs and rushes into his room to change out of his painfully itchy and stiff suit and into something more comfortable and less emotionally scarring.

“Hey, Cas, what's the rush?” Dean asks from their kitchen/dining room/living room. “I mean, take a breath, man.”

“Forgive me,” Cas snaps back breathlessly through the door. “for hoping to avoid wearing this prep school trash for five more seconds.” Cas starts stripping the pastel puke-colored shirt off his skin and breathes deep.

Dean doesn't know what kind of hell it's been, working with Crowley. Cas would never tell him. Dean has too much on his plate already, with his post-traumatic stress from his years in Afghanistan and his brother cutting ties with him a year and a half ago. Cas refuses to burden his roommate, and more importantly, his closest friend with his own stupid problems.

Leather squeaks slightly as he eases the pants up over his thighs and hips. Cas scans his drawer for a moment before slipping into a neat, dark red tee that is maybe a little too tight, but at least you can actually _see_ his sleeve tattoos. He had to fight tooth and nail just to be allowed to keep his lip ring for work, God forbid he show off hundreds of dollars worth of ink, too.

He spikes his hair quickly and applies eyeliner. He'd kill for Dean's leather jacket – the wear on it is exquisite, but he'd never take it without permission. Beside his car, the jacket's all Dean has left of his dad.

“Come on, Cas, seriously! Food's getting cold!”

“What are we having?” Cas likes the arrangement they have. The garage where Dean works has short hours and low pay, so Dean does most of the work at the apartment, cooking, cleaning, and so on, but Cas pays more rent since if there's one good thing about working for Crowley, it's the salary.

“Chicken and noodles in garlic butter. Sound okay?” Dean's holding two plates, somehow balancing two beers on his forearms. Cas rescues the bottles before they can fall. “Sit down and hurry up, I wanna see it. No weaseling out of showing me now.”

“Dean,” Cas begins, but Dean butts in.

“Cas. No more excuses.” Dean sits on his end of the couch and cracks open his beer.

“I'm _eating,”_ Cas reminds him gruffly, but he couldn't get mad. Dean's excitement over this is pretty much the only good thing that's happened so far today.

“Dude. I've been waiting for, like, three days.”

“Then you can wait for ten minutes.” Cas stuffs a forkful of chicken and noodles into his mouth.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he finally shuts up and stabs a cube of chicken with his own fork. “Why make me wait this long anyway? You can take the bandage off after like, two hours.”

“Because,” Cas says, “I know you're gonna want to touch it. And I wanted it to heal completely first. So you don't fuck it up.”

“Well gee, Cas, thanks.” Dean makes a face at him. He's quiet for a minute, then starts to speak again. “Come on, it'll take like a minute!”

“You're really eager to watch me take my shirt off, aren't you?” Cas says. He's never been any good with innuendo, but living with Dean has changed _that_. His roommate's a walking, talking euphemism for sex, Castiel swears. Of course, he always dances around how Cas is actually _into_ guys. Except when he jokes about how Cas should be doing the cooking, since he likes pans so fucking much.

Dean thinks he's a damn comedian. Cas has to admit, even the pan jokes are worth enduring when he's the one making them.

After another ten minutes of pestering, Cas gives in. He stands up and winks at Dean, walking over to the cassette deck by the TV – and only Dean would still own a cassette deck, the fucker – and puts in a tape.

Dean busts out laughing as Warrant's Cherry Pie comes on. “You son of a bitch,” he chokes out through gasps for air. Cas ignores him and slowly teases off his black jean jacket.

“Dude, you're making way too much out of this!”

“Sorry, I thought you wanted a show,” Cas says, not stopping. He lets his jacket fall to the floor and grabs the back of his shirt, tugging it up over his head. He hears a muffled sound from Dean – part of him knows it's probably a snort of laughter, but another, stronger part sort of hopes it's a stifled moan. Cas is fully aware he has fabulously sensual hipbones.

When he gets the shirt off, he turns around so Dean can see his left shoulder. The soft gasp when he sees it is worth every agonizing moment today, from Crowley to the long walk home in the cold.

Dean stands up and slowly, gently runs his finger across the tattoo. Castiel knows what he's seeing, even if it's damn hard for him to get a good look at his own ink. The watercolor tattoo style is a gorgeous one, even if it's still fairly uncommon, and it lends itself perfectly to the multicolor supernova on Cas's shoulder.

“Huh.”

Cas twists around, trying to see Dean's expression. “That's it? 'Huh'?”

“It's... God, Cas, this shit is beautiful.”

Cas tenses up, just a little bit. “Tell me what you really think.”

“I'm not kidding. This is like... fuck, Cas, it's basically you.”

The sound of wonder in Dean's voice is seriously starting to freak Cas out. He turns around, but Dean puts a hand on Cas's shoulder and turns him back. “It's so _complex_ , and Jesus. It's you in a goddamn tattoo, endless fucking space and light, and shit. Who did this?”

“Jo.”

Dean lets out a long sigh. “Well, I guess I owe her flowers. This is amazing.” He pauses, and lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “You know, if you were seeing anyone, you could have hickeys all over space.”

Cas smiles, even though Dean can't see it. “Oh, yeah? Funny.”

Dean's still talking, his voice softer than Cas has ever heard it. He's pretty sure Dean wasn't listening to his sarcastic comment. “You know, I could never do it. Get a tattoo. Can't stand needles. I mean, I've got enough holes in me that I shouldn't be so freaked out about little ones.”

Cas slowly turns around. Dean's face is only inches from his own. He can feel Dean's breath on his lips, and he should not be thinking about that.

“Do you want to?”

Cas's brain stops working. Like there was a power surge and his battery burned out. “To what?”

It feels like an eternity goes by before Dean answers, and a billion thoughts are running through Castiel's head. What does he mean, does he mean himself, does he want to give me space hickeys, what the fuck are space hickeys, I think I maybe want space hickeys, especially from Dean, fuck that's not what he means. He's just making another joke.

“To have hickeys all over space.”

Dean's not breaking eye contact and Cas's heart is pounding. He doesn't remember ever being so aware of his heartbeat. Dean's pupils are so big Cas can barely see the ring of brown around them-- he blinks. Dean's eyes are green. Must have been a trick of the light. Or the fact that there's approximately no oxygen getting to Cas's brain.

“Of course I do,” Cas breathes.

And then Dean is kissing him, and fuck, but Castiel couldn't care less about the color of Dean's eyes (smoky green, like the leaves of a tree through early-morning mist) or the sting of too much pressure on his new tattoo.

Dean's tongue is playing with Cas's lip ring, and it feels strange but in the best of ways, the way where nothing in the world matters more than Dean's mouth on his and they're making out and Cas isn't wearing a shirt but Dean _is_ and how is that fair? And then Dean's tongue is slipping into Cas's mouth, and Cas knows he's getting distracted. He should really focus more on the wet slide of their lips, and how Dean's mouth and nose seem to fit in the best way against his, and how he's starting to feel a little dizzy.

And that's only the beginning. It gets a lot easier to get up and go to work, knowing who's waiting for him when he gets home that night. Though some days, Castiel wishes he could just stay in bed, with Dean.

It's a Thursday when Cas realizes that he hasn't seen Dean with his shirt off in several days. Three weeks into their relationship, three weeks of sharing a shower, sharing a bed, sharing lazy Saturdays with next to nothing on, and all of a sudden Dean's playing hard to get?

Cas knows something has to be wrong.

There's no easy way to find out, so Cas is direct. As Dean gets up to grab a beer, he asks him flat out. “Why are you suddenly playing the blushing virgin, Dean? And you and I both know it's an act.”

“What?” Dean says, grinning.

“You know what,” Cas says, still keeping his tone lighthearted. If something happened to make Dean uninterested, getting too serious could make it worse. “Suddenly I can't see you without a shirt?”

Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Ah. So you , uh, you noticed.”

“Yes.”

“It's, uh – It's kind of a surprise. But I think it's ready now.”

Cas smiles. “What?”

Dean pulls his shirt off, with no overture whatsoever. “I, uh, I almost chickened out,” he admits. “But Jo convinced me to go through with it.”

Cas can't look away from the neat black script on Dean's forearm. _09.18.2008._ It's Jo's stylized script, he recognizes it on sight.

He can't speak. Cas is tearing up but he can't stop himself. “You...”

“September eighteenth, 2008. The day we met.” Dean takes Cas's hand. “You pulled me out of hell.”

“I gave you money for the subway, don't exaggerate,” Cas says, rolling his eyes.

“I'm trying to be nice. Prick.” Dean sighs. The scars on his torso are bright white and crisscross one another. Castiel wishes that he could press a hand to his skin and heal every wound. Even the psychological scars that sometimes wake him screaming.

“Anyway.” Dean takes a deep breath. “What I'm trying to say is that I think I might be in love with you.”

Cas laughs. “I think I might know that already.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“I might be a son of a bitch, but I'm _your_ son of a bitch.”

Dean kisses him, and Castiel wouldn't notice the world ending as long as Dean had him in his arms.

 


	2. FBI AU

The stairs to the basement are badly lit. Only a single bulb, dangling from a thin cord with a pull chain, illuminates the narrow, twisting steps. Dean would never understand how anyone could spend whole days down there. It had to be suffocating. He prefers open air, open road, and open cases. Though it is the greatest satisfaction in the world to close the case.

At the bottom of the stairs he found a single doorway. The carpet looked like it was installed in 1972 and hadn't been changed since. A large brown stain crossing the closed threshold looked worryingly like ancient blood. Dean liked this place increasingly less.

Special Agent Castiel Novak is just finishing up his paperwork when a knock comes at his door. “It's open,” he calls without looking up. He still can't believe he is finally being transferred. He's been riding a desk since he joined the Bureau, in spite of repeated requests to work collaring criminals. At last, the transfer request was approved, and Cas has a new partner.

“Hey.” Castiel finally turns around. He raises his eyebrows, looking the visitor up and down. Nice eyes, he thinks. The man's features are a little feminine for the hypermasculine agents Castiel usually works with. He can't say he dislikes the change. And his freckles are more than Castiel could, or is willing to, count. “So I guess I'm your new partner,” the man says. He sticks out a hand. “Special Agent Dean Winchester.”

Castiel eyes his hand without touching him at first, then slowly reaches out and returns the offered handshake. “I was just...” He gestures vaguely at his cluttered desk. “Unless you're in a hurry, I think I'll leave it for a minute. Sit down.”

Dean sits in a vacant swivel chair in the corner.

Cas sits behind his desk and pulls the pen out from behind his ear. As he sets it down, Agent Winchester makes a godawful snort. “Yes?” he says, trying for oblivious politeness.

“Your poster,” Dean says.

The poster in question was originally a joke. At least, Castiel had thought it was funny when he bought it half-price from a closeout sale. No one else seemed to perceive the irony. Perhaps he miscalculated the general sense of humor of the FBI.

“I mean, 'I Want To Believe?'” Dean shakes his head. “Cute.”

“Can I get you a drink?” Castiel asks hurriedly. He wants to take the focus off the goddamn poster for five minutes, if possible. Defending his décor to the death gets a little exhausting. He doesn't wait for an answer. He opens up the liquor cabinet behind his desk and takes out two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Do you actually believe any of that crap?” Dean asks as Cas pours him a cup. He takes it with a nod of thanks. “You know. Aliens. Monsters. D'you think it's really real?”  
Castiel shrugs. “Not aliens. But I believe in monsters.” He sits back down and sets his glass on the edge of his desk.

“No such thing.” Dean hasn't touched his whiskey. Castiel wonders if he's trying to suggest that his whiskey isn't good enough. No FBI agent who's worked a case underestimates the value of drinking to forget, in Castiel's experience.

He stands up again. “I believe in the kind of monsters that come dressed as everything you've ever wanted.” He swallows. “Nothing hides in the dark and waits to grab you. Not really. Monsters make promises and show you the things you want most, and then they rip you apart.”

Dean looks fascinated. Castiel isn't sure how he feels about being observed like a lab rat. Well, as long as it's this Special Agent Dean Winchester, he might give the world a little leeway to stare at him. Finally Dean says, “Sounds like I opened a can of worms there.”

Castiel gazes at him, electric blue eyes meeting a deep-forest green. “I suppose you could call it that.” He would swear that he's loved someone with eyes that color before, but for the life of him, he can't remember a name.

Dean sets his glass on Castiel's too-messy desk. “I know I'm making a lot of trouble for you. You've probably got a nice, desk-oriented routine here and I came along and messed it up for you. But try to have a little patience with me. My partner, Benny, uh... He got shot two months ago. I did too, actually. Laid up in the hospital for two weeks, been in physical therapy since then to keep in shape. But Benny, he didn't make it.” Dean doesn't meet Cas's eyes when he says it. “So I kinda need a partner. And I guess you're it.”

Castiel can't believe what he's hearing. “You – you think you're coming in and screwing up my life? I've been trapped down in this cesspit for six years. Don't apologize for helping me escape.”

His gaze falls on Dean's empty glass. He doesn't remember seeing Dean down the whiskey. He mentally scolds himself for slacking – he should be paying closer attention.

Dean bids him a hasty goodbye after that, saying he's got some appointment with Henrickson about an upcoming court case he'll testify for.

About a week later, Castiel is carrying the last file box out of the putrid, moldy hellhole where he's spent six years when he gets a call. “This is Agent Novak,” he says, struggling to balance the box in one arm as he speaks into the phone.

“Agent Novak,” says a voice he's heard one other time in his life. “Just got a call to head out to Des Moines. Looks like we got a serial killer on our hands. Meet me at headquarters in ten minutes.”

The call ended before Cas had a chance to speak. Who the hell was this Dean Winchester?

Dean was waiting at headquarters when Castiel arrived. “They tried to get ahold of you at your office, but apparently your lines are down.”

“I unplugged the landline when I left. It's my phone.”

Dean nods, looking like he's holding back a laugh. “You still own a landline. Wow.”

“My dad bought me that phone when I was fifteen. It's all I have left of him.” Castiel won't look Dean in the face now.

Dean took on a distinctly uncomfortable posture. “S-sorry, man, I didn't know.”

Cas stares at him. “You seriously believed that.” He raises his eyes toward the clear blue sky. “I cannot believe this. My dad's not dead. He's just a jackass who ran out on his family. No attachment there.”

Dean helps Cas load a suitcase into the trunk of the Bureau-approved car. “Still can't believe they won't let me use my own wheels,” he grumbles as Castiel sits down and buckles in. Dean, he notices, doesn't until Castiel reminds him that if nothing else, Dean is an agent of the law and should follow the seat belt law.

“Am I gonna be riding around with a snitch?” Dean asks irritably.

Cas shrugs. “All right. But if a truck rams into us, I'll be saying “I told you so” to your corpse.” He smirks to himself as Dean groans and belts up.

“Cannot _believe_ this,” Dean says again as the car resists his attempts at ignition. “Think they'd rather us drive _working_ cars than the ones they own.”

“I'm sure if you make a formal complaint, Zachariah Adler in Human Resources would be glad to ignore your concerns,” Castiel says. “He never listens to any of mine.”

They're on the road for hours before Castiel actually asks about the case. “So what's in Des Moines? What are we dealing with?”

“Looks like a serial killer,” Dean says, coaxing the car into fifth gear as they pull onto the Interstate. “Victims are found in parking lots, mostly. Some more public than that – a theatre lobby had a big shock when they opened up to find a bloody corpse on the main stage.” He shakes his head. “Look in the file, there are some pretty skeevey pictures. The subject leaves the bodies posed. Targets all ages, gender isn't a factor. All of them have severe burns, inflicted premortem, and C.O.D. is a stab wound to the chest with what looks like a meat cleaver.” Dean recites all the information like he's memorized it.

Castiel guesses that he has. “Signs of sexual assault?”

“None. But here's the weird thing. Bodies aren't just dumped and posed. The unsub draws wings around them in ash.”

“What kind of ash?” Cas asks. “Human, or...”

“Forensic analysis suggests it's just ordinary white oak trees.”

Castiel glances at him. “They must be getting it from somewhere,” he points out.

Dean nods. “We'll ask around once we get there.”

“It's starting to get dark,” Castiel adds. He wants to get to work as soon as possible, but neither of them will be any use if they're running on coffee and a ghost of lunch today. They have to stop for the night, to sleep and eat.

When he tells this to Agent Winchester, he seems reluctant to find a place. But Castiel wears him down – he learns quickly that his new partner will do almost anything in exchange for double bacon cheeseburgers and pie. Castiel gets him to take the next exit at LouAnn's diner, a rusted-through burger shack that somehow nails the art of balancing the mayonnaise with the house sauce. And the apple pie a la mode turns out pretty damn good. LouAnn, a woman in her sixties who, as it turns out, runs the joint with her two sons and their families, directs them to the only motel in the town.

The Only Motel in Town, as Dean dubs it almost instantly, is somehow packed full. Someone is having a wedding, and a ton of out-of-towners had to come in for the festivities. Even when presented with the badges of federal officers, the manager can only get them a single room to share.

Dean offers to toss a coin for the bed, but Castiel reluctantly admits he'd rather share than risk sleeping on the floor. The Only Motel in Town appears to have roaches, and the cigarette ash on the floor is worse than a lumpy, stained mattress.

Agent Winchester looks less than thrilled with sharing the bed, but he agrees to do it. Castiel smiles halfheartedly, knowing he doesn't want to take the floor either. “At least buy me a drink first,” Dean grouches.

“I did,” Cas says. “Five minutes after you introduced yourself.”

“That whiskey tasted like ass,” Dean says, but he might be joking. Cas can't quite tell.

Special Agent Dean Winchester kicks in his sleep, Castiel learns. Not that Cas is much better as a bedmate. He's well aware of his incessant snoring problem.

Hopefully Dean doesn't mind. Cas would mind the kicking, except Dean also has a very fine ass that Castiel is not ashamed to ogle.

They arrive in Des Moines around midday. The local cops are more than happy to help. Their unsub isn't in CODIS, which doesn't help, and they couldn't get any decent prints off the bodies. The only thing of use the local forensic team can give them was that the killer was a woman.

“Well, that changes things,” Dean says.

“Understatement,” Cas answers. A woman killing with that much violence and force is bad. That usually means damage. So much rage or fear that she thinks her only escape is killing. But leaving wingprints behind... that's still strange.  
“If she's a rape victim...”

“Or a victim of spousal or parental abuse,” Castiel cuts in. Dean's righteous indignation is attractive as hell, he has to admit. _Down, boy._

“... she might be reasoned with.”

“Or she'll be too concerned about her own survival to talk to.” Cas doesn't want to let Dean get his hopes up.

Dean makes a face at him, looking so professional Castiel wants to laugh. Or kiss him. Just a little. But the officers on the case are leading them to the morgue, and that's far too inappropriate. He steels himself and refuses to cave.

(He caves a little, and grins.)

 

* * *

 

“Cas, this Anna girl's gonna kill again if we don't find her now,” Dean is shouting. Castiel can't think, there's too much information now.

Anna Milton, 28, worked at the lumber mill that produced white oak lumber for house construction until she started murdering strangers with a knife. She was a good girl, religious. She was adopted as a baby, which might have explained how she wasn't aware she was at a high risk for schizophrenia. When her parents were killed in a bank heist gone wrong, Anna Milton had snapped.

“Hold on.” Cas feels like he's missing something important. This girl might be mentally ill, but she was still covering up her crimes and avoided leaving evidence. Anna drew ashy wings around her victims like she was hoping they would reach Heaven. Like she was remorseful.

Or repentant.

“What was the name of her father's church?” Castiel asks urgently. Anna's father had been a pastor.

“Our Lady of Grace,” Dean answers immediately.

“We need to get there now. She might not take another victim right away. If she's anywhere, she's there.”

Dean swears at the shitty car as he struggles to get it into gear. With a final “ _fuck you,”_ he gets it going and starts burning rubber.

Anna Milton is kneeling in her father's empty church when they arrive, their guns out and ready. There's still blood all over her white blouse and blue jeans. Castiel can't hear what she's whispering right away, but as they get closer he can make it out: “I'm so sorry, Father, please forgive me. I c-can't stop myself. I n-need to do it. These lost s-souls, they have to be freed. It's the only way, please, Father.”

“Anna Milton,” Castiel says. Anna turns around, and it's only then that Cas sees she still has the knife in hand. It's practically a guaranteed conviction.

Her red hair is clumped with red-black blood, the wetness on her face a mix of tears and more blood. “Please,” she breathes. She's clenching the knife too tightly for Castiel or Dean to get close.

“Cas,” Dean warns him. Castiel knows what he's thinking. He's never worked a real case before. And Dean's last partner was shot to death. Dean must be hoping that Cas won't be joining him in the ground.

“Anna,” Cas says softly. “I believe you want to stop hurting people. Is that right?”

“I have to,” she says. “They're suffering.”

“Sometimes suffering is okay,” Cas answers. “If they still want to live in pain, they should have the choice, right? They get the choice to live. You chose to live after your parents died. I want you to keep living. But if you want to do that, you have to stop taking away their choice.”

Anna's eyes are huge, staring up at him. “Will someone kill me if I stop?”  
Castiel shook his head. “If you start taking medicine to help you, no one will try to kill you. But they will kill you to save themselves, if you don't stop hurting people right now.”

Anna swallows. Castiel wonders sickly if she can taste the blood of her victims.

The knife clatters to the floor. In a flash, Dean is there, holding Anna Milton's wrists as he handcuffs her and helps her to her feet. “Anna Milton, you are under arrest for the murders of Hester Matthews, Rachel Delouise, Daniel McGraw, Uriel Holden …”

They take Anna to the police station. She tries to resist more than once, but in handcuffs and without her knife she's no match for two federal agents. More local cops are busy at the crime scene, but Dean and Cas escort Anna to a cell to be held until trial. There's no way she will be let out on bail, not with the risk of going off medication and committing more murders. _But hopefully,_ Castiel thinks, _she'll get treatment. Live a normal life. As normal as can be, under the circumstances._

They're driving back to Virginia when Dean finally says something to Cas that isn't “Keep an eye on her while I'm driving.”

“You did good back there.”

“Thanks.”

“For a desk jockey, anyway.” Dean smiles at him.

“ _Thanks,”_ Cas repeats. “I appreciate your approval. In fact, I _cherish_ it.”

Dean's grinning now. Then his grin fades. “You could have gotten killed.”

“I didn't.”

“Jesus, Cas – I'm just saying don't make me so worried like that. Gonna kill me, swear to God.”

Cas laughs. “You were worried about me?”

Dean shrugs. “Well, yeah. I don't want to lose your ass on the first try. It's a very nice ass.”

Castiel stares at him.

It takes a moment for Dean to realize what he's said. “Fuck. Okay. So, uh. Partner. You wanna go out sometime?”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “You mean, out for drinks?”

“No, jackass. On a date.”

Cas can't stop himself from smiling. “I believe I do.”

 


	3. Barista!Cas and Hipster!Dean

Castiel's eyes aren't on his work. They should be – the owner is very specific about how seventeen flavors of muffin are arranged in their display – but he's waiting on someone.

The coffeeshop opens at four in the morning. Cas has always thought that was an egregious mistake; the only people awake at four are the early morning walk-of-shamers and his sorry ass, brewing espresso for the six a.m. crowd and organizing the organic wheatgrass muffins by shade of off-brown.

The bell on the door trills, and Cas barely keeps himself from looking up like a dog panting after a squirrel. He knows the timing by heart now. Seven weeks ago, Cute-Ass-Green-Tea-and-Green-Eyes started coming in at four o'clock on the dot. He's been trying to work up the courage to write his number on the guy's napkin for six of those seven weeks. Castiel already has his order waiting; green tea, half a tablespoon of sugar, and an espresso muffin (one of Cas's personal favorites).

C.A.G.T.A.G.E. comes up to the counter, looking for all the world like it's two in the afternoon instead of the asscrack of dawn. His glasses aren't real. Cas knows because he takes them off to work on his computer, and one time he left them on the counter as he drove away. They're just plastic lenses in the traditional hipster frames. Though they look nice on the guy. And the beanie did, too, back when he would wear that. “I'll have a --”

“Right here,” Cas says, before he can finish, and slides his tea and muffin over to him.

The guy grins sheepishly. “Guess I oughta mix it up a little, huh?”

Cas shrugs. “I don't mind.” His heart leaps when C.A.G.T.A.G.E. winks at him and takes his food to a booth.

Every morning the guy, his sandy brown hair as artfully tousled as if he's just rolled out of bed, comes in and works on his laptop for two hours. At six-fifteen, he gets up and leaves a 15% tip at his table. He's never taken advantage of the free refills for unspecialized tea. Never even bought an extra muffin. And as far as Castiel can tell, he's never even spoken to anyone besides Cas himself.

They'll be alone for the next hour, Cas knows. He should really just get up and talk to him.

He should really just mind his own business and finish... watching the decaf machine wheeze to life.

This sucks.

He manages to ignore C.A.G.T.A.G.E. for six minutes. To his surprise, he's not the one to break the silence.

“Can you give me a hand here?” the guy asks, leans back, stretches. His smile is so charming and inviting Castiel thinks he would probably throw himself into Hell to follow him.

He's being stupid. He doesn't even know the guy's _name_.

“Uh... yes?” He sounds like an idiot. God help him, he sounds like a moron.

C.A.G.T.A.G.E's smile is a thousand watts. “Great. I'm really stuck on this.”

Castiel steps out from behind the counter. “What are you working on?” He's half hoping it's astrophysics. Science, he understands. He'd rather not look like a bigger fool for not knowing who shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

“It's just this story I'm working on, you know? Feels like I'm hitting a wall.” C.A.G.T.A.G.E turns the laptop toward Castiel and scrolls up. “Can you read this and maybe help me figure out what happens next?”

Castiel sits down on the opposite side of the booth and takes the laptop.

> _"Okay. So, any theories?”_
> 
> _“Uh...” Sal blinked._
> 
> _Dane stared at him. “Not one? Come on, college boy, you're the one who cares so damn much about books! Not one of them says anything about this?”_
> 
> _"Yeah, Dane, because so many books down here are all about what happens when you stare too long at a --”  
>  _
> 
> _"Well, there's gotta be something.” Dane's hands shook. “We have to snap him out of it.”_
> 
> _Maybe there's a file on it?”_
> 
> _Sal watched the mirror warily as he walked around it. He kept a good distance from it, like you do, when you can feel the evil dripping off of the glass. Getting too close was stepping in the magic, and Sal didn't want to find out what that meant. Odds were they'd end up just like their friend._
> 
> _Dane paced, and even though he knew he shouldn't, he kept looking back at the mirror. He could feel it tugging at him. It wanted him, too._
> 
> _He wondered if Sal could feel it._
> 
> _Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if he just gazed into the glass for a little while. Maybe there would be answers there. Maybe it would be nice._
> 
> _The mirror wanted to wrap around him, warm him like a blanket and comfort him. It was so hungry. The darker man was delicious, but it wanted, it needed more. It craved Dane's lifeblood._
> 
> _Dane felt its jaws, and its warm embrace._

Castiel feels a shiver wriggle up his spine. “So, you're like, Stephen King or something?” He says it as confidently as he can. He won't admit how shaken he is now, how haunted the words are.

The guy laughs. “Without the drugs, I guess so.” He looks at Cas expectantly. “What do you think?”

It takes Cas three tries to wet his lips enough to speak again. “Did you intend it to be that traumatizing?”

That startles the other man. His smile fades. “That bad, huh?”

Castiel feels bad immediately. The poor guy looks like a puppy whose dreams are about to be crushed. He hurries to reassure him. “It made me feel cold all over. You scared me. That is what you wanted, isn't it?”

C.A.G.T.A.G.E's smile starts to return. “That's a relief. Here I thought my writing was just shitty.” He takes his laptop back and starts typing. “I'm Dean, by the way.”

“Cas. Castiel,” Cas says. His heart dances in his ribcage, banging on the bones. “So you're a writer?”

C.A.G-- Dean sighs. “I wish. No, I'm a techie at Sandover. I write when I get the chance.”

“You're a strong writer. If you finish that story, you won't need to keep working there.”

Dean closes his laptop with a neat _click._ “You know something about writing?”

“I know your story sounds interesting. And you scared the heaven out of me.”

“Scared the _hell_ out of you,” Dean corrects him.

Castiel kicks Dean under the table. “Believe me, there's plenty of sin left in me.” He keeps a straight face as Dean makes an exaggerated wink.

“So, Blue-Eyes, tell me about yourself.” Dean unwraps his muffin. “You know, I've been dying to talk to you.”

“Really?” Cas can't believe what he's hearing.

“Ever since you fucked up my order and gave me a banana-orange smoothie muffin. It was good, by the way. Not my favorite, but good.” Dean bites into his espresso muffin. “I don't even like muffins that much. But that's all you have.”

“You know, I can't recommend anything beyond our 'lovely organic' muffins.” He raises an eyebrow conspiratorially. “I want you to understand, it's a trade secret. This bread is cheaper than dirt to make, and no one buys it here because of the calorie count. Something so delicious should cost ten times that. But because it's cheap, we pretend we don't sell cinnamon bread.”

“But if someone came in and asked for it specifically...”

“We'd have to provide. We'd probably have to make it fresh, so the bread is warm and sweet with cinnamon sugar. The whole thing just... melts in your mouth.” Cas shrugged. “Just so you understand why I can't recommend our wonderful cinnamon bread.”

Dean finishes his muffin. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas smiles, and nods. “I hope that you enjoy your next order with us,” he says innocently.

They get to talking about Dean's social life, somehow; apparently Dean's band shirt was designed by the lead singer of the band, his friend Charlie. It's an indie-rock band, which he is quick to add isn't his normal type of music. He prefers classic rock, but he'll make the sacrifice for Charlie. And the skinny jeans and the belt made of what appears to be various belt-buckles linked together and his knit jacket are all part of his Sandover Rebellion. Or so he says. Cas suspects Dean secretly enjoys playing hipster, even if he claims to prefer red meat and various flannels with biker boots.

“Still, I'll fake vegan as long as it keeps pissing off my coworkers,” Dean says. “I don't need them knowing what I'm really like. Keeps them off my back.”

“And yet you'll tell a complete stranger everything about you,” Cas says.

Dean shakes his head. “You look at me and it feels like you're reading my mind anyway. Might as well tell you all about myself upfront.”

“I'll remain a mystery.” Cas leans forward. “Make you find out everything for yourself.”

“Not fair,” Dean whines, but Castiel can tell he doesn't mean it.

Dean picks up his tea, but he spits it out the moment he takes a drink. “It's cold,” he explains when Cas looks concerned.

Castiel checks the clock. It's been almost two hours since they started talking. Where did the morning go? “I'll get you a new one before you go, on the house,” he says apologetically.

“Don't worry about it,” Dean says, but Castiel insists.

“I have to say, Dean, most hipster guys walking in here aren't half so --” he cuts off as the door swings open and three guys, dressed as similarly as college-campus hipsters can be, swagger through the door. “I have to go, sorry,” Cas says. He gets up and slips back behind the counter. For hipsters, their orders are remarkable in their entitled specificity: mocha frappe with a half-inch of whipped cream and an ounce and a half of cinnamon and sugar with a glazed organic quinoa and chocolate chip muffin, and that only the first order.

Castiel hates this place.

He keeps his eyes on Dean as he serves the college boys their artisan coffees and overblown pastries. Dean hasn't opened his laptop, and is instead swirling the cold tea with a little spoon absently, staring off into space.

By six-fifteen, Cas is swamped with customers. Hannah, his coworker, is hanging up her coat when Dean stands up and comes to the counter. Cas puts up a hand, signaling him to wait for a moment, then turns around and grabs a to-go cup that's been waiting for Dean. Castiel's number is written in Sharpie on the paper cup holder.

He passes the cup to Dean, who looks slightly surprised to realize Cas went to the trouble to make him a new tea.

“Shit, Cas.”

Cas waves him off. “Think nothing of it. I'm the reason the first one went cold.” He refuses to let Dean pay for either cup of tea, but grudgingly agrees to let him pay for the muffin.

He's a little sad to see Dean go, but he'll be there again tomorrow, and Cas doesn't have time to think about it.

When he's done with work at noon, he checks his phone almost automatically.

There's a text from a number he doesn't recognize.

Y _ou doing anything this weekend?_

Castiel smiles to himself and responds.

_Maybe I have a date with a hot guy I met at work._

He thinks for a moment, then adds, _Or maybe I don't._

It's only a second before his phone buzzes. _oh thank God. for a sec I thought you liked me ;) what time should I pick you up?_

 


	4. High School AU

The halls are empty and silent. In the heat of early summer, the hundreds of teens trapped in the stifling, un-air conditioned rooms are panting for breath, using old test papers as makeshift fans. In room 67, Mr. Singer has all but given up on convincing his English class to focus. Gordon Walker hits on blonde, quick-witted Jo Harvelle; Mr. Singer just hopes she's smart enough to know he is no good for her. Ms. Barnes, from the math course across the hall, cares even less what her students are up to, it seems, since she's now leaning on Singer's desk, chatting with him about his summer plans. In the far corner at the back of the room is a small knot of students who Singer knows well enough are just waiting for the end of class. The end of high school.

Genius engineer Ash Foster, future West Point graduate Anna Milton, sharp-eyed Cassie Robinson, and Singer's biggest troublemaker (and one of his brightest students), Dean Winchester.

“What are you gonna do, then?” asks Anna. She sits up on top of her desk. “I mean, stay or go, but you have to decide. What'll it do to him if you walk out?”

Dean's eyes are closed, but his hands are shaking. “Don't worry,” he tells his friends. “I've got a plan.”

Ash snorts. “Yeah. Your plans are foolproof, always.”

“Aah, shut up.”

On the other end of the school, Castiel Shurley sits at his desk by the window and taps his pencil on the polished hardwood surface. His fingertips itch to get to the phone in his back pocket, knowing the message he's just received is from his boyfriend. In spite of Rowena MacLeod's strict policy on having phones out in class, Cas wants more than anything to see what Dean wrote.

It's not like he can focus on her florid descriptions of how chemistry will pertain to their futures. Castiel probably knows it better than she does by this point, anyhow. You don't get full rides to college on a load of hot air.

He watches the seconds tick down, growing more mathematically impossible as each moment takes longer and longer to pass.

When the bell rings, Castiel is officially free of Truman High School. It's _over._

Which means his relationship with Dean Winchester might be _over,_ too.

He grabs his phone as the other students flood the halls to escape. All the seniors are through with their final day, and raring to escape. Castiel wants to wait, avoid the rush. He's in no hurry to break up.

Cas opens Dean's text. _Check ur locker_ , it reads, grammatically lazy as always. Cas shakes his head. Dean is as brilliant as the rest of his friends. He slacks off because he can. Cas will never understand how he can be so faithless in his own potential.

When he finally does reach his locker, his heart drops even further. A pencil-scrubbed, crumpled sheet of paper is taped to the door. In Dean's all-capitals script, it instructs him to go to the greenhouse behind the school for a “surprise.”

_Fantastic,_ Castiel thinks. _I'll be lucky if he lets me down easy._ After all, Dean Winchester was infamous at Truman. He had a 'something' with Lisa Braeden and Cas knows that Dean used to go out with his friend Cassie. He half wonders if that's not why Dean's with him now. If he never got over her, then he doesn't have to worry about saying her name by mistake. He can always play it off.

Cas doesn't know why he's thinking of his relationship in the present tense. Dean's drifter father raised him to play fast and loose with dating and sex, by all accounts. Cas thought he was certain that Dean would never use him, but it was rare enough for John Winchester to let his sons stay in one town for two whole years as it was. Now Dean's graduating, John's probably going to pick up and drive off, taking Dean and his younger brother Sam with him.

He'd like to believe Dean's not going anywhere. Hell, Dean promised he'd never leave him, when they realized they had their fathers in common. Distant, alcoholic, absent for days or weeks at a time. But Castiel's lived his whole life here in Fairfax, and Dean... Dean's seen so much more.

Cas walks slowly through the empty halls. There's nothing here worth staying for – well, maybe Meg. But that's a long shot, considering how she pants over the bad boys. And Cas can barely call her a friend. More like an acquaintance that really wants into his pants.

Dean still hasn't told his father about them. Castiel would tell Dad, he would. But he gets the feeling his dad wouldn't care at all. So what would be the point?

He walks through the gym. There are over three hundred folding chairs set up for the students and their families. The graduating class would need somewhere to sit, and they weren't about to have the ceremony outside in this heat. The gym's high ceilings could save everyone heatstroke. The decorations are cheesy, but that's a tradition by this point. And Castiel won't begrudge proud parents going out of their way to make their children feel special.

Castiel stops just short of the greenhouse. He doesn't want to go in. God, this is it. Dean's going to say, it was nice knowing you, but I'm going on to the rest of my life, and you aren't a part of it.

Somehow he musters the courage to walk in. Dean's there, waiting for him. And he looks beautiful in the muffled light through the glass ceiling, like gold dust dusting his hair and face. Castiel feels a lump rise in his throat as he realizes he never got to follow through on his dream of counting every last freckle on Dean's face.

Dean's pale. The worrying kind of pale, the pale that makes you wonder if he's about to pass out.

He doesn't look like he's upset about whatever's coming. Cas isn't sure if that's reassuring or not.

Whatever Dean has to say, Castiel Shurley won't let it destroy him.

Still, Dean's face lights up when he realizes Cas is here. He crosses the distance between them and kisses Cas's cheek gently. _Not the lips,_ Cas thinks, and he doesn't know why it matters so much.

Dean breathes in quickly. “So I guess you're wondering why you're here. Why I asked you here.”

Cas can't speak, so he just nods. If he speaks, he'll start crying, and he can't let himself do that.

Dean rubs the back of his neck with one hand, like he's embarrassed. “I wanted this to be a surprise,” he says, and holds out a small black box.

Cas can't figure out what's happening. This isn't how breakups usually go. “It's customary to get down on one knee first,” he says dryly.

Dean huffs a short, breathy laugh. “Just take it, jackass,” he says.

Cas's palms are sweating, but he takes the box and starts to open it.

“Wait!” Dean says. Castiel freezes. Dean wavers for a moment, then waves a hand in dismissal. “Forget it. Just go ahead.” Cas keeps looking at him, unmoving. “Okay, I felt like I needed a speech there or something, but I'll just make it more awkward than it already is. Go ahead.”

Cas opens the box and lets the cardboard lid drop to the floor to disappear among the creeping vines. “It's a key,” he says flatly.

Dean's grinning like an idiot now.

“I don't get it. Is this another one of those metaphors? The 'key to your heart' or something equally ina--” he stops himself before he can voice an insult. He wouldn't want to hurt Dean's feelings. “Interesting,” he finishes, knowing how unenthusiastic he sounds. “So interesting. And, uh, very romantic --”

“Come with me,” Dean says.

Oh. So that wasn't the whole surprise.

He hopes that the rest of the surprise involves less mystery and more electromagnetic waves, but that's a long shot and he knows it.

Dean walks him around the entire school. By the time they reach the front, Cas's dress shirt is soaked in sweat.

Only a few cars are left in the parking lot; teachers, mostly. A couple stoners hanging around the bleachers by the football field are still parked, too.

Dean leads Cas to a black car by the treeline at the edge of the lot. Castiel is afraid to touch it, and not just because it must be hot enough to fry an egg on in this heat. The car's suffering from a moderately severe case of rust. It's nothing Dean wouldn't be able to fix, not with his head for mechanics, but it doesn't look too safe. What isn't rusted, though, gleams like new.

“This is my car,” Dean says with more than a hint of pride. “I saved for months to get her, Cas. That's kinda why I made you pay for all our dates these last few months. Got her for two grand. Motor's running fine, she's in excellent condition except for the rust, and I'll take care of that in no time. She's a '67 Chevy Impala. Dad says –” Dean stumbles a little in his rambling speech now. “Dad says she's a great car. Take you wherever you need to go.”

Castiel stares at the key in his hand, and suddenly the pieces fall into place.

“So, um, Cas. Dad says he doesn't care if Sam stays with me. He figures I'll be parent enough for him. So, uh, would you want to –”   
“Yes,” Cas says without hesitation.

“Would you want to go with me and Sammy –”

_“Yes.”_

“And we'll find a place to stay by your campus and everything –”

“Damn it, Dean, I'm saying yes!” Tears well in Cas's eyes, but he doesn't bother to wipe them away. Dean wants to stay with him, wherever he goes. Dean's not giving him up. Dean's taking his brother away from his awful father and he's going to stay with Cas.

“I'm _not done,_ ” Dean says, but he can't make himself sound serious. “Castiel Shurley, will you do me the honor of running away with me?”

Cas throws himself at Dean, hugging him with all his strength. “Yes,” he says, and kisses him.

Saturday dawns chilly and wet, the sun cowering behind the clouds like the futures of the graduates are bright enough to blind it. Cas cheers when Dean ascends the dais to receive his diploma – he had worked his _ass_ off to get that thing. The moment the graduating class leaves the gym in a processional, Dean is gone. It isn't like his father was gonna show up.

Castiel, on the other hand, had friends he'd known his whole life to say goodbye to. He didn't tell them that he was leaving that day. He couldn't give that game away; not with his father in attendance. He couldn't believe the drunk bastard got off his ass, but maybe miracles do happen.

“I'm sorry, I really have to pee,” he excuses himself to Uriel. He runs off before anyone can stop him.

As he runs, he drags the polyester robe over his head and clutches at his diploma. He spots his father's car in the parking lot – Dad's ugly ride is parked in the very back of the lot. He'd probably stumbled in half-drunk just before the ceremony began, knowing him. Castiel finds his own car amid a collection of clunkers just like it. It's not even his car, not really. It's Dad's. But Cas has the keys, and more importantly, every worldly possession he's bringing with him is stowed in a duffel bag in the backseat.

He grabs the bag, stuffs his cap and diploma into it, and takes off running. Dean said he'd be parked in the back lot, where no one would notice them going. True to form, there's Dean, leaning up against his rusting car like it's a white stallion and he's here to whisk Castiel away to a romantic life of bliss.

Cas has more realistic expectations, but it's a nice fantasy nonetheless.

Sam's face peers out at him from the backseat. The kid's only just finished middle school, but he's sharp. He's going places.

Dean pops the trunk and Cas heaves his duffel in.

He rests a hand on the top of the trunk and gazes around, taking in one last glance of Truman High. For a moment, he sees a strange symbol painted in red on the inside of the trunk's lid. One of those pentacle things.

As he frowns, the sun slips out through a break in the clouds, shining into his face. Once he's blinked away the sunspots, he checks the trunk again. There's nothing painted there, and no sign there ever was.

Cas takes his seat shotgun and buckles in. Dean grins at him and turns on the radio. “Ready?”

_A whole wide open road waiting for us under the stars,_ Cas thinks.

“Ready.”

 


	5. Reverse!Verse

Castiel barely registers the feel of hot, muggy air on his skin before he takes a swing. He swears as his fist connects with bone. "Where the hell are we?"

He'd been flying. He'd _felt_ them flying, could feel every gust of wind under this creature's wings. And now they were someplace else, in the middle of nowhere. Cas is shaking. He missed that feeling, wind beneath wings. He can't remember where he felt it before.

The green eyes that gaze back at him coolly dance with gold flecks, like the infinity of space catching streaks of sun. "You won't like the answer."

"I didn't like Hell," Castiel informs him. "Explain. Now." He thinks of his gun, safely hidden in his belt. Not that it will do much good against a fucking _angel._ Christ.

"Alright. You know what? I'm done. You fucking humans think you shit gold. Think again."

"You _kidnapped_ me," Cas points out. He considers ripping his cross necklace off and stepping on it, just to spite this holy prick.

"I put you back together," the guy – the angel – snaps. "Frigging Humpty Dumpty here, and you're sassing me?"

"Give me one good reason not to."

"Castiel Milton, my name is Daniel. I am an angel of the Lord, yadda yadda yadda, and I'm here to help you stop the end of the world." The angel leans up against the trunk of a massive tree.

Cas can't think of a good answer to that. Rather than keep poking the bear, he takes a moment to look around. He and the angel Daniel are in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thick trees. Castiel can hear thunder close by, but he can't see the sky through the leaves. The woods around him are unfamiliar, which doesn't mean much. He was in Illinois when this assbutt appeared and dragged him off to who-knows-where.

Daniel is moving now, traipsing through the underbrush as easily as if he were sauntering down a city street. Castiel trails after him, pushing twigs aside and swatting at insects.

Daniel doesn't look much like an angel. No wings, no white robe or halo. He seems like a regular guy; light brown hair, a little taller than Cas, wearing jeans, workboots, a T-shirt, and flannel. More drifter than messenger of God.

"I thought it was very honorable of you to do what you did," Daniel says.

"Well, thanks, Daniel. I'm overjoyed to hear it." Cas couldn't care less what this... _entity_ thinks of him.

The angel winces. "Call me Dean," he says. "Please."

"On the down-low?" Cas asks rhetorically. "Whatever you say, _Dean_."

Dean holds a branch back to allow Castiel past. "I meant, it was a good way to go. You gave that girl her mother. And you saved her soul."

"So trading myself for her, that's the sort of thing Heaven cares about?" Castiel is sweating and being bit by countless bugs, and this angelic dick isn't telling him anything.

"What Heaven cares about is not getting its ass handed to it by Lucifer," Dean snaps. "So I think dragging you out of the pit was the least we could do."

He's not making any sense. "Okay." Cas stops short. "Tell me what's going on. Be upfront with me, and I might even cooperate. If you try to fool me with, 'The Lord works in mysterious ways,' I swear to you, I will make this very difficult for you."

Dean sighs. "The first seal has been broken. You are the Righteous Man, okay? Like, think Heaven's MVP on the human side of things. And the first seal has to break before the rest can. Once sixty-six seals are toast, Lucifer jailbreaks and we have a front-row seat to Revelations."

Now Dean has Castiel's full attention. "I-- I'm Heaven's..."

"You're Babe Ruth and Muhammad Ali rolled into one, kiddo. But they don't want you for stopping Satan's rise. They just want you to kick his ass once he's out."

Cas stumbles on a rock. Dean catches him and sets him upright without missing a beat. "You say 'they,'" Cas says, his mind rushing with hundreds of thoughts and questions. "But you're an angel. Unless you were lying about that," he adds suspiciously. The thunder he could hear earlier is much louder. It's getting hard to think, let alone understand what this Dean is saying.

Dean smiles tightly, like he's got worse things on his mind. "I figure the Righteous Man and I can keep Satan locked down and stop the end of the world. I get this is a lot to take in, but the world is screwed if Sam and I sit by and do nothing."

"Sam?" Cas begins to ask, but he loses his train of thought as he sees where they've been headed.

A waterfall towers over them, hundreds of feet up. The sunlight catches on the misty drops of free-falling water, making them glitter as they tumble down to the river a few yards from Castiel's feet. The thunder he'd heard is the falls, thousands of gallons tumbling down, rushing and rushing. But down here, at the foot of the cliff, the water is reduced to mere fog.

"Kerepakupai Vená," Dean says. When Castiel makes a questioning noise, he adds, "You wanted to know where we are. The Canaima National Park of Venezuela."

"Venezuela." Cas isn't sure he heard right.

Dean turns to face him. His brow is knit with annoyance. "Would you have listened to a word I have to say if we stayed in Illinois?"

"So you teleported me to _Venezuela?_ "

"Felicidades," Dean says dryly. "In any case, we don't have much time. Heaven wants the end of the world as much as Hell does. It's me and Sam, and you, if you agree to help us."

"I need more information. Apocalypse? Why now?"

"A man named Jake Talley, who until further notice can be assumed is Lucifer's vessel –"  
"He needs a vessel?"

"– has been working with Lucifer's top demon, Lilith, to bring about the Apocalypse. That included coercing you into selling your soul, since you needed to break the first seal in Hell. No one will blame you for that, since you didn't know," Dean says, as if he can read Cas's mind. Castiel has the uncomfortable thought that maybe he can.

"Hold on," Cas interjects, before Dean can keep going. "You said Satan needs a vessel. Do you?"

Dean looks away, staring at the river. He mumbles, "Yes."

"I don't care how hot a body you have, I won't work with _anyone_ possessing another human being!" Castiel pulls his gun, ready to run through miles of isolated jungle if he must, but Dean simply sighs.

"My vessel was an alcoholic with no family living, former soldier wounded in combat suffering major PTSD. He was happy to turn his life over to someone else."  
"Either get out of him or get him out."

Dean takes a deep, calming breath, and stares up at the sky as if pleading for patience. "Do you agree to it?" he asks, but he doesn't seem to be talking to Cas anymore. "Very well." A pause. "I guarantee you Paradise."

Castiel starts to ask what's going on, but then a silver light bursts from Dean's chest and spirals up into the sky.

Dean turns to him. "You're right. It's a little skeevey, fighting for free will while forcing a stranger to watch me use his body for my own purposes. I'll ask Sam to do the same, once he meets us here."

A crashing noise in the trees propels Castiel into action, raising his gun again. "Speak of the devil," Dean says as a lanky man strolls nonchalantly out of the treeline. The relaxation would almost be believable if there weren't sticks stuck in his hair.

"Have a good landing?" Dean asks.

"Bite me," the new angel says.

"Castiel Milton, this is Samael. He's a lieutenant under Uriel in the garrison that watches humanity. A seraph."

"Did he tell you what he is?" Sam asks. He doesn't wait for an answer. "A principality."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Sam here thinks my rank is funny."

"No one takes a principality seriously."

"Thanks, Sam. Really getting me the vote of confidence I need." Dean starts to sit down on a rock, but Sam grabs him by the arm and pulls him back to his feet.

"We don't have time to sit on our asses," Sam says. "Lilith is gearing up to break another seal."

"Which one?" Dean asks, immediately alert. Cas is barely following the conversation. This is too much to take in, hours after _rising from the fucking dead._

"Why fight the end of the world?" he asks. "It'll bring Paradise to billions of people." He turns to Dean. "What's to gain by stopping Paradise?"

"People will die –"

"And they'll go to Heaven!"

"– painfully," Dean finishes. "Lucifer will roast their flesh, do you hear me? Innocent people will be ripped apart by their friends and families. Those that survive will have Paradise." He laughs bitterly. "The kind of Paradise where they have everything they could want. Except a reason to exist. Everything except freedom."

Samael – Sam – nods. "Peace or freedom," he murmurs.

The cross pendant weighs heavy on his chest. "And God?" he asks. He's not sure he wants to hear the answer.

Dean's playful, charming smile vanishes, a steely expression taking its place. "God doesn't give a rat's ass what we do."

Sam presses his lips together and closes his eyes.

"Besides," Dean says, brightening. "Long as Earth keeps making hot pieces of ass like you, I won't let the end of days come to pass."

Castiel considers this. "Usually, I leave saving the world for the second date. Not that the waterfall wasn't impressive."

Dean sizes him up. Castiel has had plenty of comments on his physical assets in the past. He hasn't seen himself since his resurrection, but he can't imagine he looks like the paragon of health.

"I've always wanted to try burgers," Dean says. "Is seven okay?"

Sam glares at him. " _We have to go,"_ he says. "Flirt another time and spare me having to watch." He tugs Dean's arm and Dean sighs, reaching for Cas.

Then they're gone.

Castiel glances around. The city is deathly quiet. Never a good sign.

"Where are we now?" he asks, absently scratching a bug bite.

"Roseville, Tennessee," Sam says bluntly.

Cas glares at him. "And will I _ever_ get back to my car in Illinois?"

"You waited for fifty years in Hell. I think half a day away from the car is no trouble," Sam points out.

"And the seal?" Dean asks.

"In there." Sam gazes up at a towering white church. "Turns out the priest is a devil worshipper. He'll slaughter every virgin in there, on Lilith's command, if we don't stop him."

"Always with the fucking virgins," Dean says.

Castiel grits his teeth. "So what are we waiting for?" he asks.

"Do you labor under the delusion that we can simply go as we please?" Sam demands. "The building is warded against us – Lilith's work."

Dean offers Castiel a blade. "It's one of ours," he says. "An angelic blade is unbreakable and can kill demons."

Cas takes the proffered weapon gingerly. It has a nice weight, but he still prefers his gun. The Colt is a damn powerful weapon, and he's fortunate enough to have it. He won't take it for granted. But there's no harm in taking a blade as well.

The guards around the church are possessed, according to Sam. Castiel can't see any other way for it but to walk right up and kill them directly, though he wishes he had more time to perform an exorcism.

The first three demons are hardly a stretch; he leaves them bloody with staring dead eyes. When Four and Five advance together, Cas breathes deep and focuses.

The first strike from the one on his left, a tall woman, almost sends the angel blade spinning out of his hand. He's so awkward with it, so unused to the feel. He swings back in an attempt to cut her throat, but she's too fast, too smart, and simply steps back, letting the weapon whoosh past.

A tight fist twisting his wrist is enough to make him lose his grip on the blade. Castiel winces as she drags on him, forcing him to his knees. Castiel screams as he hears his bones crack. The other demon, a squat man, grins wickedly, and Cas doesn't think before grabbing his gun with his free hand and shooting the demon in the face.

The other demon's hand is still wrapped around his arm, but Castiel isn't stupid. He leans back, dragging her off-balance, and swings his leg around to knock her down to the pavement. She doesn't even get the chance to stand.

Castiel quickly sets about undoing the angelic warding; Sam and Dean informed him that he can't see it in this plane of existence, but he lets loose wildly with a can of virulent green spray paint until he hears the whisper of wings and realizes he's damaged enough sigils to let them through.

He hears screams from inside the church, and decides quickly that whatever the angels are doing in there, he doesn't want to see it.

The front doors burst open a moment later, and the congregation floods past him. They don't notice the five corpses around him, or the fact that he's dripping blood and holding his wrist carefully.

Now Cas can only hear one voice screaming, but it's far worse; the priest's wails are pathetic, weak, and filled with so much pain Castiel can almost pity him.

Almost.

At last, the priest is silent, and Dean and Sam walk out the front doors of the church. Their faces are stippled with blood; it's their arms that are covered in gore.

"Bastard killed four kids before we got to him," Dean says. "Took an infant from her mother's arms and butchered her while her mother sobbed."

"He suffered," Sam adds coldly. "I can't wait to get my hands on Lilith."

"The seal –"

"Safe," Dean says. "He had to kill thirty-six virgins at least, to break it. The seal is still unbroken."

Cas is quiet for a moment.

"Can you take me back to my car now?"

Startled into a laugh, Dean nods. "Sure thing, Cas."

Cas finds himself sitting on the hood of his car, on the side of a bare and dusty road. He and Dean are alone.

He puts his hand down as he slides off the car to the ground, and winces as his wrist throbs.

"Hang on a sec," Dean says, and cups Cas's face in one hand.

Castiel feels significantly less pained, as well as significantly less sticky. The blood on his face and clothes is gone, and so is the swelling on his wrist. His insect bites are nonexistent.

"Thank you," he says. He considers what he's about to say next very carefully. "So, you wanna get something to eat now? I know a burger shack down the road with the best double-bacon cheeseburgers you will ever eat." When he sees Dean's look of surprise, he adds, "And curly fries. Their curly fries are edible sin."

Dean shrugs. "I was kinda hoping you'd ask."

"Well, come on, then." Cas opens up the passenger side door of his Lincoln Continental.

Dean loves the burgers, and tries to order six more – on Cas's dime. Cas eventually talks him down to just a slice of pie, which Dean instantly scarfs down like he's never touched anything more heavenly in his life.

Cas wonders if it's a sin to kiss an angel. Because with melting ice cream on the tip of his nose, Dean is the most beautiful man he's ever met. And he's not even a  _man,_ he's some kind of unfathomable cosmic eldritch horror, but he seems to fit in this small body like he belongs there.

Castiel kisses him on the front step of the burger shack, and it feels like flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kerepakupai Vená is a real place -- I wanted to use a real waterfall in the jungle, and when I googled, "isolated waterfall in Venezuela," at random, I had to choose this one. It was the first result, and its English name is Angel Falls. It's the tallest unbroken waterfall in the world, and the pictures are gorgeous.


	6. Merman AU

Feeling a cool summer breeze on damp, salty skin is always a transcendant experience for Castiel. The sweet chill of the rock he lies on is even more enthralling. The sky above him is black, darker than the deepest ocean trench and scattered with tiny points of light.

He hears a wet flop as Dean heaves himself out of the water, and sighs with contentment. It's bliss up here, away from ordinary life. With Dean.

"Better hurry," Dean murmurs in his ear. Castiel knows they have at most an hour before sunrise, but he wants to savor the night for another moment before he lets Dean distract him. But they can't do this once the sun is up.

Dean's leg slides between Cas's own. "How long were you waiting?" Dean asks, his lips brushing Castiel's ear. Before he answers, Dean sucks his earlobe into his mouth gently.

It's strange, how much attention Dean pays to the upper half of Cas's body. Like he's trying to forget what he'll find below his belly. Castiel has always been fascinated by what lies between Dean's legs – how can he not be?

Sex with Dean would be impossible in the sunlight, though Cas wants it. He wants to see the sun kissing Dean's smooth hips, watch him dip toes in the saltwater to cool them from the heat of the day, like people do.

It's hardly fair, and Cas knows there's nothing he can do about it. Dean is still beautiful, even with fins and a seaweed-green tail. Just as Castiel knows he is attractive while wearing gold and blue scales. But he wants to see him laid bare in the light, just once.

"Come on," Dean whines. "We're running out of time."

Castiel glances toward the east; the horizon is still dark, but Dean's right. "I never expected you to be so anxious."  
"Then you don't know me at all," Dean whispers.

Sex, when you are unused to legs and buttocks and penises, is a strange adventure, but since Dean and Cas discovered their mutual interest, they've been having this adventure together. Dean insists that Cas stop calling their genitalia by those words; Cas refuses to call them anything other than what they are. Dean thinks he's such an expert, just because he listens to those yacht people getting it on while their fancy boats drift aimlessly along. It's where he discovered the importance of lubricant, a blessing if Cas has ever seen one. Where Dean got the bottle of 'lube' is questionable, but Cas truly doesn't want to know.

"I want you in me," Dean says, when Cas offers him the bottle. "I had you last time, it's only fair we trade off."

Cas cups his face in his hands and kisses him slowly, pulling apart just as Dean starts putting his tongue into action. "Don't try with me," Castiel warns him. "I let you start kissing me, then the next thing you know, your tongue is in my ass."

"Fuck, Cas. Finally, using the right words." Cas knows he sounds silly when he uses _cock_ and _ass_ , but Dean pretends he doesn't. It's sweet of him.

"You just said you wanted me to take you," he continues, taking his time as he slicks his fingers with the ooze from the bottle.

"Yes, yes, now come on, just –" Dean's words become a moan as Cas slides a finger into his hole. "F-fuck, come on. You're doing so good, Cas, baby."

"Dean," Cas says warningly. If he makes noise, the Coast Guard could hear and think he's drowning. And they can't be caught. "Shh."

Damp brown hair flops as Dean nods. "God, Cas, do that again," he moans when Cas pushes his finger in deeper.

Cas is in no rush, in spite of the approaching sunrise. Eventually he adds a second finger, then a third. Dean writhes beneath him, more sensitive to touch than Castiel has ever been. He loves every moment of attention Castiel spends in hesitation, keeping his fingers inside him as he presses a kiss to the sharp jut of Dean's hipbones. The soft moans he makes when Cas crooks his fingertips within him, the gasps of pleasure Cas elicits with nothing but a well-timed slide of skin on skin.

But it's when he removes his fingers to slick his own cock and Dean's grinding against the rock just for friction that he's reminded of how _good_ Dean takes care of him. Dean has never forgotten to care for Cas's erection while preparing him for sex. Dean whispers reassurances when the stretch gets to be too much for Cas. Dean smooths back his damp hair and makes soft promises of _always,_ desperate gasps of _I need you, I would die for you._

Castiel kisses Dean's neck and murmurs to him to turn over. Dean does it quickly, with the urgency of someone who wants, and who wants desperately. In a moment, Dean's legs are hooked around his waist to give Cas easier access.

Each thrust makes the two of them moan in tandem. Their sweat makes the slide of flesh smoother, and Dean's hands run up Cas's back, nails dragging down his spine as the rhythm of Castiel's hips falls in time with the rush of waves against the rock.

When Dean comes, Castiel takes only a moment to follow him, pulling out before he can spill. He doesn't know the consequences of coming inside Dean; trapping the seed in his body once he takes his tail again would probably be a strange sensation, at the very least. Neither of them are willing to risk such an experiment.

The first rays of false dawn cross the horizon just as Castiel curls up against Dean. He shivers as the change takes effect; his knees fuse and scales ripple out of his skin like cut hairs just beginning to grow again, itchy and foreign.

Dean turns on his side to kiss Cas gently. Before they know it, Dean's on top of him, kissing like the whole world has vanished. Cas half desires to warn him that they could still be seen, but the Coast Guard will have moved on by now. The early morning always leads their boats closer to the shore, to meet with the coming tides of summer swimmers. He gives in to his other desires instead, and lets Dean kiss him as if his mouth is the water of life.

There are still a few stars in the sky when they stop at last. Dean shifts where he lays, and produces a necklace from behind a rock. "It's kinda cheesy," Dean admits. "But I thought of you when I saw it."

A sand dollar threaded on the seaweed cord seems to glow a ghostly white in the fog of dawn. Sea glass sparkles on the necklace as well. "It's beautiful, Dean," Cas says, and takes it to slip over his head.

Dean ducks his head, and Cas knows he's too flustered to speak. Instead, Cas leans back and gazes up at the sky.

"I wish I could touch the stars again," he says softly.

Dean sits up. "Again?"  
Cas laughs. "I dream about them, sometimes. Swimming through space like it's an infinite ocean, dipping my fingertips into the center of a supernova." It's a childish dream, but he remembers the warmth of suns on his skin.

"If I could, I would bring the sky down for you, so we could swim around the moon together."

Castiel shakes his head. "You're too romantic for me. You should find someone whose dreams aren't so farfetched."

"I'm not leaving you," Dean says.

"Wouldn't ask you to," Cas responds through a yawn.

He's about to doze off, pressed with his head against Dean's chest, when Dean shakes his shoulder. "Cas, we have to go."

The buzz of a speedboat motor brooks no argument, though Castiel wants to make one anyway. Dean clasps his hand tightly as they slide into the ocean together.

Castiel swims alone to his place among the anemone. Most of the fish and other merfolk are already asleep; the cave where Dean lives is isolated enough that no one should notice and realize the risk they're taking.

When Cas rests his head on a bed of seaweed, watching the anemone wave gently in the currents, he expects sleep to come quickly.

He can't. Something is strange, bothering him too much to let him rest.

He doesn't know what it is. He just knows something is wrong. He can feel it in the way his wings shift restlessly, like they're aware of a threat he can't see.

Wings.

That's it.

He can't have wings, he's a merman. It's all wrong. He can't have wings. He can't.

_But mermen don't exist._

It's the matter-of-factness with which he thinks it that makes him want to puke. How can he not exist, how can he have wings and not a tail, his tail is _right there,_ he's looking at it and there's no way this can't be real, but he can feel it in his bones.

Something is very, very wrong here.

 

* * *

 

Sam glances up as Dean storms into the library. "Anything yet?" Dean asks. "Not a damn thing in the archived logs except 'Mirror arrived today, catalogue number 241,' on April 27th, 1939."

"Two-forty-one?" Sam asks. "That's something, right? Here, I think I've got the records for that series of magical objects in this book." He flips forward from #57, a set of locks that animate the boxes they're attached to, until he finds #241.

"'Enchanted Mirror,'" he reads. "'This item not to be uncovered under any circumstances.' Curse placed on the mirror in the 12th century by a witch who was betrayed by a fellow, apparently the friend was engaged to a baron or something and the witch was jealous because her friend was leaving the coven."

He reads a little more as Dean taps his foot impatiently. "Hey, here's something. 'Curse entrances whoever looks into it, entrapping their mind in a vision of their heart's deepest, closest desire until the victim... wastes away."

"Well, Cas can't waste away, he's an angel," Dean says. " So we just break the mirror and he's back to normal. Right?"

"The entry makes it sound like it sucks the mind, the soul, everything right into the mirror itself. So the body's just a shell, it can die if it's not cared for. And Cas..." He closes his eyes. "He might not just snap out of it if we break the mirror. If he's still in it, he might die with the spell. We're gonna have to, um. Convince him to break free of the curse on his own."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I feel like this is a good time to refer you guys to my blog. You can find me at clothedinconviction.tumblr.com if you'd like to yell at me about my porn quality (or other commentary).


	7. Con Artist AU

The door swings open with a crash as Charlie runs into the room. Cas is immediately on his feet; something's wrong if Charlie, notorious hater of excessive cardio, is bolting through the door like she has Cthulu on her ass. Then he stops short, blinking.

Charlie's dead.

He almost laughs at himself; she's right there! There's no way she isn't alive.

But Cas knows it in his mind, whatever his heart wants him to believe. She must be dead, because Sam and Dean...

...burned her body.

Charlie's urgent voice jerks him out of his thoughts. "We've got problems," she says. "The package is being moved tonight."

Dean leaps over the back of the couch. "What? You said that it'll be there 'til next week –"

"And I was wrong. They must've had a change of plans."

"Did they get word of what we're doing?" Sam asks.

"No, no, not a chance." Charlie runs a hand through her hair in a frenzy.

"Cas?" Dean asks suddenly. "You doing okay?"

Cas blinks himself to life and shakes his head. "Yes. Yes, I'm... alright." This is impossible. He knows everything they're talking about like it's fact; the plans they have to break into Richard Roman Enterprises, everything from their faked key cards to the room number where their quarry is hidden. But he also remembers a life barely begun, driving away from a high school with Dean by his side and the wind in his hair; a decade in a dusty office waiting for the real adventure to begin; growing up hunting, half a century of hellfire, and then meeting an angel with Dean's freckled face.

And he remembers his wings, but he can't feel them anymore.

"Well, Charlie, you're gonna have to be ready if you're gonna hack their security tonight," Sam says. "Last thing we need is to be unprepared."

"I mean, it's bad enough they're funding the NRA –"

"Second Amendment ain't all bad," Dean says from behind a desk, where he's clearly arranging seven different types of gun on the wooden surface.

"But sending financial support to fucking –"

"Okay," Castiel says, covering Charlie's mouth playfully. "If I let you rant now, you'll never shut up in time for this heist."

Charlie rolls her eyes from behind his hand, but she's off her soapbox. Castiel would normally let her run her mouth, but they simply don't have the time to deal with it.

And he needs quiet, to think about what's happening to him.

He sits down at his computer and reviews their plans in his head. He'll be driving the getaway car, and guiding Sam and Dean through the RRE facilities to get to their prize. Charlie has all the tech gear she needs to keep the security cameras down, and Jess will be waiting inside to make their presence look legitimate. As a minor secretary, Jess walking two visitors toward the offices shouldn't look out of place.

Cas smiles fondly as he remembers Jessica putting up such a fuss about having to play the sweet, ditzy secretary for weeks while they worked out their plans. But with eight million dollars on the line, she was willing to make the sacrifice. Then he closes his eyes, frowning. That conversation may have never even happened.

Has he... ever met her?

The thought of having never even seen Jess before makes him feel sick. This is all wrong. He knows her favorite color, knows that she likes to sing when she's cooking, knows the sound of her laugh as intimately as he knows the sound of Dean's.

This is all wrong.

But this place, this life, it can't be real.

Dean claps him on the shoulder suddenly, and Cas shivers. Every moment they've shared, every time Cas has held back the unspoken _I need you, I want you_ that threatens to spill past his lips in quiet moments. Because maybe none of it was real

But he's here now, Castiel thinks. If he's here now, he can live this life. Until it stops and he finds himself in a new one, that is. But damn it, he wants to enjoy the time he has with Charlie alive, with Jess safe, with Sam and Dean looking happier than they've ever been. And maybe his gut is wrong, and this is the real world. He's always been a vivid dreamer, or so his memories of this life tell him.

"You should get some sleep before the big night," Dean says, and he looks scared. It shouldn't surprise Cas. He's been unfocused, sloppy, ever since Charlie walked in. Dean likes his teammates sharp and ready for anything. That's why Cas is even on the team in the first place. Because Dean likes his teammates that way.

He just wishes that Dean liked a _certain_ teammate in a way that went a little beyond their Band-of-Brothers dynamic.

It's not likely, anyway.

Cas stumbles to his bed in the next room, collapsing on the bed and letting a wave of sleep wash over him.

When he wakes up to Dean shaking him gently, he winces. Castiel had hoped that the wrongness was a dream, or his imagination.

"Come on, Cas," Dean whispers. "It's almost eight. We've gotta be at the rendezvous point by nine."

"'m up," Cas mumbles through a mouth dry as cotton. He rinses out his mouth.

He needs a drink.

He needs an entire liquor store to forget this.

Part of him thinks distantly, _that's because you're an angel._

He shoves that part aside. He'll deal with that problem later, because right now the whole team has much more pressing concerns than "Cas might be having a mental break."

Dean and Sam load up into the backseat of Cas's 1978 Lincoln Continental. Dean has a single handgun on his person, while Sam is carrying a wiretap under his left sock and has three knives under his clothes; one in his back pocket, one concealed in his sleeve, and another uncomfortably hidden in his underwear, just in case of a strip-search. Castiel knows their habits like he knows his own preference for subtle explosives and vehicle kill switches.

He's never used an explosive device in his life.

He's used hundreds.

Castiel isn't sure which part of him is telling the truth anymore.

Richard Roman Enterprises is headquartered in an imposing steel structure, all mirror-bright glass and sharp edges. One good kick and the whole place might shatter.

Sam and Dean gather their supplies; most of what they'll need is in two slim, professional-looking briefcases. "Guess there's no time like the present to rob the biggest corporation in the United States," Dean says. "See you soon, Cas." He leans forward from the backseat and presses a brief kiss to Cas's cheek, then slides out of the car and slams the door behind him. Sam lets out what can only be described as a giggle, and follows him.

Cas sits there speechless for moments before he remembers he has work to do. He switches on his speakers so he can hear what Sam and Dean are saying, and his microphone so they'll be able to hear his instructions. He's the one with the instructions they'll need.

They aren't talking yet, which is fine. He starts driving again, just to circle the block. "Are you in yet?" he asks.

There's a long pause. "Almost," Sam says. "We're at the door. Dean's bright red," he adds, as if it's information Castiel needs at this juncture.

"Am not," Dean hisses.

Cas hears the doors swing open. They're inside. "Use your key cards to get past the first layer of security. Charlie?"

"Yeah?" Charlie's back at the apartment where they've been holed up in the last week.

"They're in the system now?"

"Of course, just had to make them look like authorized guests with temporary cards in the company's security system. No big."

Cas can't see her, but he can hear the pride in her voice and knows she's grinning.

"Has Jess met you yet?" Jess isn't on comms with them. She was at headquarters all day, and that made it difficult to get her wired up.

"She's here," Sam breathes. So Dean's still not speaking. Wonderful.

"Okay. Jess will take you upstairs. Take a left at room 42." He waits patiently for them to do so as he idles the car at a red light.

"We're there," Sam tells him at last.

Castiel directs them the rest of the way, then explains what exactly they have to do with what they came for.

He's going around the block for the fifth time when he sees the glass double doors swing open. Sam isn't there, as per the plan – he'll be sneaking out back with Jess, while Dean goes with Cas.

"Sam and Jess, what's your status?" he asks, just to check in.

"We're safely in the car," Sam says. "Turning off comms now."

Dean slides into the passenger seat and tosses his silver briefcase in the backseat, flipping off his comms and taking out the earpiece.

"Charlie, you there?" Cas asks once more.

"Yep."

"See you at our rendezvous." He turns off his speaker and microphone, and speeds away before anyone at Richard Roman Enterprises realizes what they've done.

They stumble upstairs when they finally arrive at their nearest safehouse, an apartment six towns and forty-five minutes away. Dean's sweating through three layers of clothes, and Cas can't blame him. If he and Sam would have been caught, it would have been _adios,_ proof.

Proof of eight million dollars in untaxed income would certainly be valuable to the IRS. At least, in Castiel's opinion. Inside the briefcase Dean brought out of the building are twenty files that not only prove CEO Dick Roman has been earning cash off the books, but also show that his company is tripling the price of a lifesaving drug, donates .5% of its profit to known warlords, and supports making homosexuality a crime. In Charlie's words, "the only way they could be worse is if they kick puppies in the break room."

"You want anything to drink?" Dean asks from the kitchen.

_Yes,_ Cas thinks. He wants to down six shots of tequila to forget the burning question of _is any of this real?_ It certaintly feels real, but then, so did being a merman. "No, thank you," he says instead.

Dean sits down next to him the couch bouncing slightly under his weight. "How are you going?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Cas lies.

"Good."

Dean is the most handsome man in the world. And Cas just had sex with him in the last strange place he'd been, so maybe it's that giving him the courage to say, "But I'd be better if I could kiss you."

The look of surprise on Dean's face is crossed with a strange elation that Castiel has never seen in his eyes, in any dream or life. Cas doesn't give himself a millisecond more to overthink this, and leans forward to kiss him. Dean might be dazed by the sudden revelation, but his instincts kick in and soon Dean's pulling at the front of Cas's shirt to bring them closer together, his kiss soft and intimate.

Cas can smell Dean's sweat. It isn't very romantic, he'll admit, but it brings to mind Dean's weekly tune-up of his precious Impala, and hot summers in cabins while they wait for a golden opportunity on a job, or riding an adrenaline rush after a hunt – no. Cas kisses Dean harder, forcing thoughts of those _other_ Deans out of his mind.

This Dean lifts Cas up onto his lap and pulls at the soft grey cotton of his shirt until it's over Cas's hair. Dean releases a soft laugh at the helter-skelter look of Cas's hair post-shirt, and Cas rolls his eyes and helps Dean out of his own shirts.

It's when Cas and Dean are fumbling with each others' belts, a tangle of arms and leather, that they hear the jingle of keys and Sam's voice. "We're here," he calls. Dean goes pale and twists around in a frantic search for his shirt, but it's too late. Sam and Jess stroll in casually.

They both stop short when they see the compromised position Dean and Cas are in.

"So, uh, what took you so long?" Dean asks at last.

"Uh, traffic," Sam says, too quickly to be telling the truth."Um. Congratulations on finally confessing your feelings for each other, I guess."

Jess tries and fails to conceal her snort of laughter.

Dean smiles sweetly at Sam. "You know, I was gonna say the same thing to you. Those hickeys new, or do they just pop up like magic?"

Sam turns red, but Jess can't stop herself from laughing now. "I pulled us over on the highway," she says. "It was time. I think he's pretty happy about it, don't you?"

Cas smiles. This must be real, right? There's no possible way his mind could invent this world, with so many detailed memories of a past, such a rich present, such a bright future.

Charlie appears in the doorway. "I got us some sandwiches," she says, heaving plastic bags onto the kitchen table. "There's roast beef, turkey, and …" She trails off, taking in Sam and Jess's hickeys and the – much more obvious – state of affairs between Dean and Cas. "… chicken," she finishes awkwardly.

"Charlie –" Dean says, like he can do damage control now.

She doesn't dignify him with a response. "So I guess I did all that shopping for nothing, huh? You're all gonna want pasta and salad and that weird garlic bread that doesn't even have cheese on it, and –"

"Charlie," Cas says, but he can't hide his grin.

"And I guess I have to go back to the store."  
"For what?" Sam and Jess ask at the same time. They glance at each other with gooey smiles. Dean gives Cas a look that says _please don't ever let us be like that._

"Champagne, of course. We're gonna get drunk and celebrate the end of Dickwad Roman and the beginning of some damn great new things. Anyone know a cute girl they can set me up with, just to round it out?"

 


	8. Baker!Dean and Beekeeper!Castiel AU

Castiel loves this stop on his route. The streets in this part of town are old cobblestone and lined with houses that have been here since at least the eighteen hundreds. And the sweet aroma drifting from Sweet Dreams Pastries is another lure, of course. But it's the guy who runs the place, Dean Winchester, who draws Castiel in every time.

He's always holding a bowl when he comes to the door, sifting flour or shredding butter into dry ingredients ("for a light, flaky crust"), but he sets it aside the moment he sees Cas's face. Cas tries hard not to delude himself into thinking that Dean grows excited and animated because of him, but he doesn't think he's trying hard enough.

Cas is at the back door of the bakery when he hesitates. He shouldn't be here. He's lived too many false lives. He shouldn't be seduced into another one. No matter how desperately he wants it. He should turn around and run, and never let Dean into his sight again. Castiel doesn't know how he got here, and he doesn't know how to escape, but he'll never find out if he lets himself be distracted by Dean.

It's too late; he didn't even ring the bell, but Dean is there, his waist poking out slightly under his floury apron. He has sugar dust all across his face, mingling with his freckles. "Morning, Cas."

Cas delivers honey fresh to Sweet Dreams every day, for the best quality. Most of his other customers pay for a weekly delivery, but Dean uses so much in his line of work, it's worth paying for the daily trip. Castiel knows this, but he still hopes Dean does it because he likes to see him.

He doesn't know if he's pathetic for wanting that, from a Dean that isn't even real.

"Good morning, Dean." He adjusts his grip on the crate he's holding. There are eight jars of honey – enough to get Dean through the day, with perhaps half a jar or so left over. Cas has had many conversations with Dean about their respective businesses in the year he's been delivering his honey.

Dean checks the honey, like always; the last thing either of them want is for a jar to be contaminated. "This'll be on Friday's bill?"  
"Like always," Cas says, and hurries out the door before Dean can say anything else.

He's halfway to his car when he hears Dean yelling after him. "Cas! Cas!" He stops, while every bone in his body begs him to run. He always comes when Dean calls.

"What?" he asks when Dean catches up.

Dean winks at him in a way even Castiel can tell is exaggerated. "You forgot your morning cupcake, cupcake."

Castiel groans. He _had_ forgotten that. How could he?

He realizes Dean is watching him expectantly. He wants Cas to say something. "Uh, what kind is it?"

"Chocolate, with banana cream frosting," Dean says, almost dancing in the street. "New flavor. Tell me what you think?"

Cas closes his eyes and sinks his teeth into the moist cake. Frosting dabs his nose, but he doesn't care. It's fantastic, like he knew it would be.

"So?"

Cas shrugs. "I don't know. Could use more vanilla in the frosting."

Dean rolls his eyes. "It's _frosting._ If I add any more vanilla, it'll be all out of balance."

"I like vanilla," Cas says stubbornly.

"I can make you change your mind," Dean says.

"Will you?" Cas asks. He has to laugh at the thought of Dean coercing him. "What will _you_ do?"

"I'll date you," he threatens. Then he laughs nervously. "I'll bring the sugar, you bring the honey?"

Cas squints at him. This must be a joke. Dean has never been so free with his feelings before. Why change now?

Perhaps he grew up with his mother and father intact. Perhaps he had a brother who didn't die at twenty-four, didn't sell his soul and suffer decades in Hell only to be brought back as a pawn for the Apocalypse. Perhaps, he thinks, horrified. Perhaps Dean can love him because in this world, in this place, he is _happy._

Castiel wants that for him. And what will it hurt, to be happy together?

"What time will you pick me up?" he asks.

All the color drains out of Dean's face. "Oh. Uh. Jesus. I didn't, uh, I didn't think I'd make it this far."

Cas takes pity on him and says, "I'm free at five. I'll write down my address for you," he adds, and goes to his car. He balances his cupcake on the hood of his car while he scrawls his home address – it's strange, to think that he has a home – and hands the scrap of paper to Dean.

"See you at five," he says, and takes another bite from his sinfully delicious cupcake.

He finishes his deliveries with a stupid smile on his face.

So much for running while he has the chance.

Somehow he doesn't lose his mind as he tends to his bees through the day. He jars excess honey and cleans out the hives, but Castiel somehow doesn't lose focus on his work. It's relaxing.

Castiel can't remember ever being relaxed in the real world.

Dean picks him up at five o'clock sharp, dressed to the nines. Cas can't believe Dean's taking him out somewhere extravagant – not on a first date, and certainly not with so little notice. But he's wearing a red tie and a neat suit jacket; Cas sees a glint at his wrists, and realizes Dean is wearing cufflinks.

The coarse fabric of his ill-fitting dress shirt and his too-large pants suddenly fill Cas with an uncomfortable self-awareness. Dean went to so much effort, and Cas threw on the quickest thing he could find.

Dean holds the shotgun side door of his sleek black car open for Cas. As he slides in, Cas hears Dean murmur, "You look... really good tonight, Cas."

It hits him that this Dean hasn't seen him in his trenchcoat and dress jacket before – he throws on whatever he can find in the light of the early morning sun, when he makes his deliveries. This Dean thinks his tie that he can never tie right and his baggy coat are attractive.

"Where are we going?" Cas asks at last. The sun is still up, and won't be gone until eight tonight at least.

"It's a surprise," Dean says, apprehension in his voice. His hands are white-knuckled on the wheel.

At last he stops the car. "Just give me a minute to set it up."

"Let me help you," Cas responds, getting out after him.

"Cas, I can do this –"

"I want to." Something in the firmness of his voice must tell Dean it's not a battle he can win, because Dean's shaky, nerve-ridden smile is back.

"Okay."

Cas helps Dean spread out a red and white checked cloth across the grass of the park where they've wound up, then carries the basket out of the trunk while Dean grabs a cooler. "This smells wonderful, Dean. Where'd you get this?"

"I, ah. I made it," he says. His hand twitches toward his waist, but he stops himself. "Roasted chicken, steamed cauliflower, and sliced pears in that plastic container there." Cas pulls a bag of chips and the corresponding dip from the basket next, followed by a paper bag carrying what looks to be chocolate-coated strawberries.

"Dean," he says in awe. "You made all this for me? When did you find the time?" He wants to cry, this is too much. In all the lives they've lived together, it's never been as sweet as this.

Dean glances away. "I put the chicken on when I went on break. The strawberries are actually, I sell those at the bakery, and..." He looks so embarrassed, Cas can't stand it.

"I love it," Castiel declares. "Thank you."

Dean looks like his words lit a fire in his eyes.

The picnic lasts until the sun starts to drift low in the sky. Dean stuffs the last strawberry into his mouth hurriedly. "We've got stuff to do yet," he says. "I mean, if you want to," he backtracks.

Hurriedly, Cas says, "I want to." Dean is so unsure of himself. It's such a contrast to Dean as he usually is that Cas doesn't know what to do. He still loves every inch of him, but he can't quite put aside the differences he sees.

Dean takes him on a walk through the woods surrounding the park. They carry flashlights, just in case it gets to be too dark on the walk back. Twenty minutes in, Cas spots a single bee diligently examining various types of clover, and addresses it in a brief conversation.

"You're pretty talkative when it comes to bees," Dean comments.

"Don't laugh," Cas reprimands him.

"Wasn't laughing. It's kinda cute, how you talk to them like they're... like they're dogs, or something."

"They're living things. I give them the same respect."

They watch the sun fall below the horizon together, their hands clasped tightly. Cas can tell without looking that Dean is redfaced with a strange mix of embarrassment and happiness.

It takes a while to get back to Dean's Impala in the dark, with only the watery beams of the flashlights to guide them back to the park, but at last they make it.

"There's, um, one more thing," Dean says quietly. "Mind coming home with me? Not like – not like that," he adds quickly. "I just have something for you that I couldn't bring in the car."

Cas can't even fathom what more Dean could do on this date.

He finds out when they arrive at Dean's bakery. It turns out Dean lives on the second floor. They climb the stairs together, and Dean lets Cas into his living room. "What is this 'last thing?'" Cas asks.

"It's, um." Dean's looking anxious again. "It's this." He takes Cas to the kitchen, where an utterly gorgeous cake sits, majestic on a round silver tray.

Cas stares at it, openmouthed. "You made me a cake."

Dean rubs the back of his neck. "I wasn't sure what kind is your favorite, so I made a German chocolate cake. I hope that's, um, that's okay. If you don't like it, don't worry, I'll probably stress-eat it otherwise." He laughs, but the sound is oddly hollow, and it hits Cas why this Dean seems so different.

"Are you embarrassed by your weight?" he asks, only to realize an instant too late how rude it sounds. "I don't mean – I don't think you should be, if you are."

Dean can't meet his eyes. "Cas..."

"Because this," and Cas puts both his hands on Dean's round waist, "is just as beautiful as the rest of you."

"Don't..."

"Don't what? Don't call attention to it? Dean, I would never ask you to change who you are or how you look. Not for my sake."

"Yeah, well, that's not what my first girlfriend said," Dean mumbles.

That breaks his heart.

"Fuck her," Cas says coldly. Dean meets his gaze now. "I mean it. Fuck her. She doesn't know what she's talking about. Maybe you have more body than she's ready for. It's her loss, not yours." He goes to Dean's cabinets and opens a drawer, only to find an array of baking spoons. He opens a knife drawer, then a drawer reserved for miscellaneous scraps of paper and old pencils. "Just tell me where the damned forks are," he says.

Dean wordlessly opens another drawer.

"Thank you," Cas says seriously. "Now, I'm going to eat as much of this cake as I possibly can. I hope you'll be eating it with me."

Hesitantly, Dean takes a fork. "So I guess that's a yes to the cake."

They take the entire cake on its platter outside, onto the fire escape outside Dean's window. The stars above them glitter and dance as they take messy chunks out of the beautiful cake.

It's past midnight when Cas realizes he should probably go home and sleep. They slip back into Dean's apartment and leave the cake and forks on his counter. Dean offers to drive him home.

"I just don't want to say goodbye," he says sullenly, staring at his darkened house. "'s not fair."

"Well, at least we'll see each other again tomorrow," Dean says reassuringly.

Cas closes his eyes and hopes Dean can't see the worry on his face that the two of them won't have a tomorrow. That when he wakes up he'll be in another world, with another Dean he can't hold forever.

"Just – kiss me goodnight?" he asks.

Dean's mouth tastes like chocolate, and Cas savors every moment.

 


	9. Fairytale AU

Balthazar rests a hand heavy with rings on Castiel's wrist. "Please, your Highness, just try to stay on good terms with your betrothed until the wedding." The look on his face tells Cas that he has no faith that he'll be able to do that. "It _is_ a political union, after all."

Castiel looks away. "I can't do it, Balthazar." He doesn't know the name of whoever is in his future; the only thing they're calling his future spouse is his 'betrothed,' as if hearing the mysterious person's identity would set him off.

He can't make a guarantee that it won't set him off, of course, but there is no call for his most trusted aide to have so little faith in him.

"Your Highness. With all the respect I can muster: don't fuck with me right now. I'm the one following you to live with the heathens. I expect you to have some measure of understanding of my sacrifice."

"I'm sure the heathens will be as amenable to a threesome as the girls at home," Cas says dryly. "I don't want to wed a stranger."

There isn't much Balthazar can say to that, and Castiel knows it. He's a prince, a mere younger son; the best he could hope for before this marriage was arranged was a small wedding at court to an earl's daughter, but at least he would have _known_ her. Now he's in a strange nation with strange customs, set to become an unprepared king alongside his "betrothed." He hates the idea. Not even the trees look right in this place.

Balthazar doesn't seem worried about how his prince's proclivities obviously aren't conducive to producing an heir. Cas and Balthazar have long since ended anything past what is proper and comradely between them, but his loyal aide isn't acting jealous, either. Maybe he's finally started to grow up, Castiel thinks. He hopes.

Balthazar glares at the door of the carriage. Castiel itches to climb out of this stuffy thing and ride on his own, but the woods are unfamiliar, and he doesn't know what dangers to expect. It would be a shame if he was murdered the day before his wedding.

They're playing a wobbly game of checkers when Castiel hears a shout, and a horse's scream. He starts to stand, but Balthazar shoves him back down. "I'll look," he hisses. "Get down, stay down."

Castiel wants to argue, but it's Balthazar's job to keep him safe, aside from the dozen guards surrounding his carriage. He sits, just as the carriage jerks to an unsteady halt. From the yelling outside, the horses are hurt. And not from stepping on a stone.

Moments later he hears the hiss of swords being drawn, and he closes his eyes. He'll fight, if it comes to that. He hopes more than anything that his warriors, the only people he'll have with him from his own kingdom, will survive the fight.

Balthazar is standing shakily, holding fast to the door with a blade in hand. The crash of metal on metal outside grows worse, and Castiel wonders suddenly if this is no ordinary banditry, but a targeted attack against the foreigner coming to marry the heir to the throne.

If he dies in this dreamworld, he thinks, what will happen? If this is another universe, he's dead, no question. But if it's a mere spell, he should awaken in reality. Unless it's a curse, and his death in the fantasy will cause his true death. He doesn't want to think about how false this place is, but his own mortality takes precedence.

A horn blows outside, and Castiel glances up at Balthazar, who shakes his head; whoever is signaling, Balthazar can't see them.

The squish of a sword cleaving through flesh turns Castiel's stomach. He appreciates swordsmanship, but in real combat, he's never been comfortable with it. He doesn't want to kill.

Balthazar's jaw drops, but when Castiel rises to his feet again, he is once more shoved back into his seat.

"Let me –" he begins, but then the sounds of fighting stop.

While Balthazar is distracted, Castiel grabs his arm and drags him away from the door, shoving it open and half-falling to the ground. He's surrounded by bodies – his men seem to be mostly unhurt, but most of the ragged bandits who attacked them are in pieces.

Ahead, almost out of sight, Cas catches sight of a rider in a black hood and cloak, galloping away from the carriage.

A group of men in olive green and dark brown uniforms are helping bandage Castiel's guards in their blue and tan. Cas walks straight up to them. "I must speak with your commander," he says, using his most royal, imperious voice.

One man, his hair long and brown, stands up. "Your Highness," he says, but he doesn't kneel or bow. "I'm their commander. I am his Highness Prince Samuel Winchester."

Castiel frowns. There's already a male heir to the throne? Then how can he become the king through his marriage?

_It's Dean,_ thinks a part of him he wants to ignore.

"Your Highness –"

"Sam."

"Sam," Castiel amends. "I take it you know who I am." Sam smiles, but there's sweat on his brow. The heat of the day, and in those uniforms, must be getting to him. "My horses are slain," he says, gesturing to the carriage. "I need an escort to your castle."

"A proper escort's already been sent for," Sam says. "In the meantime, my men and I can stay with you."

Balthazar lectures him on throwing himself thoughtlessly into danger as he waits. Before long a green carriage arrives, rounding a bend in the path. "How far is the castle?" he asks Sam.

"About ten minutes by horse," Sam answers. "You'll meet your, um, betrothed tonight, at dinner." He clears his throat. "We have a banquet planned. It's a whole event."

They're all avoiding the subject. "Who is my betrothed?" Castiel asks. "Why all this secrecy?"

Sam glances at Balthazar. "Your, um, aide asked me not to mention it."

"Because?"

"He's concerned about your reaction." Sam doesn't want to make eye contact; he can barely glance in Cas's direction. "I just want you to know, we understand how unconventional this is. It might be uncomfortable for you. It's certainly uncomfortable for your betrothed."

Castiel and Balthazar mount the carriage; Sam rides behind them, to keep watch for lingering attackers. Castiel wishes Balthazar would let him fight his own battles for once. But he's right. It's an important diplomatic step, and he can't risk jeopardizing it by getting himself killed.

Servants bring him to a private room where he can change out of his travel clothes into something more formal. He sheds his loose linen shirt and exchanges it for a tailored, white silk shirt featuring the billowing sleeves popular at home. His trousers are blue silk, and his nicer cloak – lined with fur, an extravagance – is a light brown, the same color as his deerskin boots.

His crown, as a younger son, has always been a thin gold circlet, nothing more. He doesn't know what his new crown will be, once he's married and becomes a future king.

At last a servant in the green and dark brown of House Winchester arrives and tells him the banquet in his honor will be served shortly. "Thank you," Cas says sincerely.

From what he's heard of this kingdom, and of the royal family especially, they don't usually engage in so much formality, and his brief conversation with Sam only served to confirm the rumor. Perhaps, he thinks, all this is to make me more comfortable.

He follows the servant to the banquet hall; they don't stop to announce him, an unthinkable breach of royal tradition. Instead, he's led directly to the head table, where Sam is already seated next to a green-robed man with a crown of copper leaves resting on his dark hair – the king, John. Sam wears his own laurel-like crown, his of gold.

Where is his betrothed? A young blonde woman sits at the far opposite side of the head table, but she wears no crown. Another woman next to her is dressed like a warrior, despite the formal dress of the other people in the hall.

Suddenly Castiel hears whispers, as the crowd of servants, common folk, and nobles mingling on the hall's floor realize that he has arrived. There are looks of shock, of alarm. Castiel hopes they won't hate him for being a foreigner. It's bad enough he'll live in a stranger's land the rest of his life, it will be worse if even the population wishes he had stayed in his own country.

The whole room has fallen into a hush at the sight of him, which makes it even more obvious when a young man with brown hair, black eyes, horns, and wings throws open the doors and hurries down the center of the room to the dais like he's embarrassed by his late arrival. The king doesn't speak to the man as he sits down between Castiel and the king himself.

"Father –" the man says in a lowered voice.

Castiel feels a punch to his gut even as King John V hisses back, "Not. Now."

So this must be his betrothed. His crown of leaves is silver, poised at a jaunty angle to fit around the curling ram's horns sprouting from his head. His eyes sparkle in spite of their black emptiness, and the batlike wings poke out from slits cut in the back of the prince's clothes.

At least it explains why Balthazar, who knows better than anyone where Castiel's feelings lie, was so hesitant to tell him the identity of his betrothed. Castiel had assumed the worst, that he would enter into a loveless marriage. Now, at the least, he might have a chance at love. Unless this prince didn't fall on the same side of the fence, as it were.

The king says a blessing in a language Cas doesn't know once all the guests are seated. Cas sits quietly, afraid to make a move that might unknowingly offend this foreign culture.

The man – is he even a man? – next to him isn't looking at him either. His back is straight and stiff. At last, food is served. Cas is relieved to see that House Winchester enjoys beef as much as Castiel's kingdom does. He tears into a plate of steak with enthusiasm after seeing the others at his table take their first bites.

"Good, huh?" Castiel winces. He hoped that his future husband's first words to him would be more memorable.

He doesn't speak, just nods. He knows he'll make a mistake.

The man turns to him. "I should introduce myself. Dean. You must be his Highness, Prince Castiel."

Again, Castiel just nods, but then his mouth betrays him. "I would say it's nice to meet you, but it's difficult to tell if you're looking at me." And it's true, Dean's black eyes make it hard to tell where he's looking.

Dean laughs, and Castiel relaxes. "You know, Castiel, the wings would almost be cool," he says. "Except they're fucking useless. They don't work."

Cas snorts, and Dean grins.

"It's a curse," he explains. "When my brother was born, a wizard came to lay a spell on him, but my parents heard of his plans, and warded Sam from him. In revenge, he cursed me instead. So I've been pretty much like this since I was four."

Castiel gazes at him. "Does it bother you?"

Dean shrugs. "I mean, like I said, I don't remember anything different. Sure freaks out my subjects, though."

The night wears on, and Dean's appearance seems almost natural by the time Balthazar appears at Cas's elbow and starts to drag him away. "Balthazar, you are a _nobleman_ ," he says, laughing. "Aren't you above manhandling me?"

"Not to preserve your innocence," Balthazar says. It's rich, coming from Cas's educator in matters of sex. "Now, we're going to your _private_ chambers." He pauses for a moment. "So I can ravish you."

Cas chooses to ignore that.

He spends all night and a good part of the morning thinking about the impending wedding. He and Dean are going to _marry._ He can't say Dean's not attractive, horns and black eyes of horror aside. But he doesn't know him.

_Yes, I do._

There's a knock at the door as he places his gold circlet on his head. Balthazar only let in a maid this morning to bring them breakfast: some kind of honeyed bread cooked until crisp, and fruit. Balthazar is out now, apparently to flirt with said maid. Which Castiel thinks is extremely hypocritical of him.

But Balthazar's gone, which means Cas can freely open the door to his room to see Dean standing there like a dolt.

"Prince Castiel. I was, uh, I was wondering... if you'd, I don't know, if you'd like to go, um, riding," Dean says smoothly. "With me," he adds hurriedly, as if Castiel thought Dean would invite him to ride in the woods alone after yesterday. He hardly had to ask.

Dean leads him to the stables. "That one there is Wingscar," he says, pointing to a creamy white stallion. Mine's Impala. It's a type of deer," he adds, petting the sleek black mare. "Guess you don't see those in the West."

The ride through the woods is quiet, considering only yesterday Cas's carriage was attacked. He brings this up to Dean. "You aren't concerned that we will be ambushed?"

Dean glances away. "That was... a mistake," he says coldly. "They didn't realize you were protected."

Cas glances over at him, his wings and horns hidden under his cloak and hood. "You were the man riding away when the fighting stopped," he says. "What were you doing there?"

"Sam was patrolling. Waiting for you," Dean explains. "He sent a runner to tell me your party was being attacked."

"And you... came to watch?" Cas tugs on the reins, convincing Wingscar to stop.

Dean goes stock-still in the saddle and turns Impala. "I fought. And then I went home, to get you an escort to the castle." He pats the sword resting in its scabbard at his waist. "This isn't just for looks, you know."

Castiel raises an eyebrow in a challenge. "Are you good with it?"

Dean grins, his black eyes glittering. "Castiel, I'm one of the best."

"Then show me to your practice courts. I'll challenge you myself." Castiel nudges his horse into a trot. "Unless you rely on your imposing presence to win your battles."

"Hell, no!" Dean practically shouts, and Impala takes off running to the castle.

Dean has to sheepishly explain that his castle doesn't have practice courts, per se. They hold their weapons training on the lawn before the doors of the main hall, where the king takes visitors.

Castiel has his weapons on him already, but Dean insists that they take up lightweight practice armor for safety. "I don't really want to accidentally stab my future husband," Dean says lightly as Cas is handed an extra set of armor.

Dean faces him from several yards away. Around them, a few groups of nobles are scattered, milling about and watching with interest.

The weaponsmaster paces for a few moments, then gives the word that they may begin.

Castiel has Dean's sword on the ground in two seconds flat.

Dean yields immediately and stares as Cas picks up the sword, dusts it off, and hands it back to him. "What... did you just do?"

Castiel smiles. Dean's wings flutter slightly. The weaponsmaster signals them to start again. This time, Dean is wary. He holds back, obviously watching Cas's every move. Cas realizes he's playing the waiting game, and tires of it quickly. He comes in at Dean from the side, his shorter sword flashing to his left. Dean brings up his blade swiftly and counters the stroke, catching the blades together at the hilt. With a deft twist, Dean disarms him and catches the blade onehanded, but Cas doesn't stop moving.

He hooks his leg around the back of Dean's knee and tugs, unbalancing him enough that Cas can cuff him around the shoulder and force him to lose track of what his hands are doing. In the moment of hesitation, Cas grabs Dean's arm and twists it enough to make him drop his own sword. A swift kick sends the blade sliding through the grass, out of reach, and as Dean starts to stand, dazed, Cas pinches a tender place behind Dean's ear. Dean winces, and Cas kicks his shorter sword out of Dean's loose, distracted grip. It lodges in the earth.

"Do you yield?" Cas asks.

"Fucking – yes, yeah, I yield." Dean's sweating. "Can't fucking believe. My fiance is a warrior."

Cas picks up his blade and hands Dean his own sword point first. Dean takes it gingerly. "How did you –"  
"I would have been a soldier, if not for our engagement," Cas says. "Hand-to-hand combat as well as with weapons."

"Shit." That seems to be all Dean can say. "That was beautiful, Cas."

Castiel looks at him for a long moment. "You haven't called me Cas before."

Dean's cheeks go pink. "I guess I like you more now."

"I suppose so," Cas says.

They spend the rest of the day having Cas shown around the castle and surrounding village. The ordinary people stare at them; the cursed prince and the foreigner. But Castiel likes the town. He hopes the town grows to like him.

Dean is constantly doing silly things for him, things that seem incongruous with his imposing figure. He picks wildflowers by the side of the path they walk, braiding them together until they form a flower crown, then ceremoniously crowns Cas with it. It slips right over his gold circlet.

At last, Balthazar hunts them down, reprimanding Cas for being so 'loose-moraled.'

"Hypocrite," Cas says, but as Dean snickers, Balthazar drags Cas away to be dressed for the evening.

"The wedding is tomorrow," Cas says conversationally as Balthazar shakes out a lavender silk shirt. A dark green tunic and similar dark green trousers are already draped on Castiel's bed. He begins to dress as he talks. "Dean says it will be simple. Apparently the ceremonies here are more rustic. Less traditional."

"Short ceremony, then on to the boozing and feasting, no doubt," Balthazar says as he changes into a blazing crimson tunic over a white shirt and gold-brown trousers, the colors of his own noble house. "I approve."  
Tonight's dinner is as wonderful as last night's; there are potatoes fried in the grease of the chickens that were cooked for the meal. They're dining in a smaller room, fit for a more private gathering. King John isn't there, but all those who were at the high table last night are there again besides him. Dean introduces Cas to Joanna, a young noblewoman and Dean's cousin, as well as his aunt and Jo's mother, Ellen.

When conversations have finally split off and no one's hanging onto their every word, Dean turns to Cas. "You know," he says irritably. "My father works so damn hard on this marriage arrangement, and now he won't even come near you. It's like he doesn't even want –"

Dean stops. Then he sighs. "Can I tell you something, if you _promise_ not to tell another soul?"  
"Dean?"

"Even Balthazar. No one. No one should know. But you have a right to understand." Dean closes his eyes. It's almost a relief, to have that empty black disappear.

"When the curse was laid on me, my parents consulted with an astrologer. He read the stars and told them that there was only one who could cure it. My true love, the one fated to love me above all others, was written there, in the stars. Cas." Dean puts his hand on Cas's and slowly twines their fingers together. "That name was yours."

"I don't believe in fate," Cas says hesitantly. Dean flinches

_Yes, you do. You almost had her killed._

"How can you not?" Dean asks. "Cas, how can you not believe in fate, when we were written in the stars?"

Cas can't stand it; he's too close, Dean's too close to him, and the candles might only be there for light but they don't hurt the elegant look of Dean's cheekbones, and he doesn't mind the black eyes so much after all.

Before Cas can convince himself it's a bad idea, he kisses Dean.

Kissing him is like having all the air sucked out of his body. He forgets the food, the others at the table. It's like the whole world stops, and he feels the stars watching him.

_You can't have this,_ the voice in the back of his head whispers.

Castiel jerks back involuntarily. He immediately forgets why.

Dean's horns are gone; his wings are shimmering and fading out of existence. With a blink of confusion, Dean's eyes go from pitch black to a natural color, a beautiful ivy-green shade.

"Dean..." Cas whispers.

"It's only been a _day,_ " Dean breathes. He's felt it. "What color are they?" he asks suddenly. "My eyes."

"Green," Cas tells him softly. The whole room is silent around them. "They're green."

And then Dean's kissing him again, and the people in the room are cheering and whistling, and Cas thinks he can feel the stars smiling, too.

 


	10. Teacher AU

The dark around him is swallowing him up. He feels hands on his chest, pressing him against a wall. "What –" he gasps, his brain working triple its usual speed as it tries to understand what's going on.

"Shhh," he hears in the dark, and he relaxes. That's Dean's voice. He trusts Dean not to hurt him. Whatever they're doing here, in the dark, it must be for good reason.

He hears another voice, faintly, in the back of his mind. _"You hearing me, man? Look, Cas. I... I need you to snap out of it. I don't know what you're seeing, but you've got to remember it's not real."_

Castiel shoves the voice back violently and focuses on Dean's voice in his ear. "You know, seeing that on you puts all kinds of crazy ideas in my head."

He still hasn't quite caught up with this world. Usually, he wakes up with a rich story of memories, but something's clearly wrong, because he can't quite access what's going on. He settles for something flirty and safe. "Like what?"

"Like this." Dean's hand slides down to grab Cas's ass as their mouths meet in the dark. Well, almost. It's too dark to see, and definitely too dark to aim a kiss. But eventually their lips find each other.

Cas is laughing as Dean pulls away. Cas hears him fumbling with something behind his back, and then a bright stream of light floods the room.

Dean slips out immediately, leaving the door half-closed behind him. Slowly Cas's eyes adjust to the light, and he realizes Dean has left him alone in a closet.

A bell rings, so loud that it must be right on top of him. He scrambles out of the closet and looks around. Lockers line the long halls, and students race down shiny hardwood floors. He's in high school.

Again? Cas knows it's been a long time, but why would he be back? He graduated.

Is this a different high school, a different timeline?

He starts walking briskly, even though he has no idea where he's going. Maybe he'll suddenly remember where his locker is.

Cas gets a glimpse of himself in a darkened window to a science classroom. His hair is trimmed and neat, except for where Dean mussed it in their rendezvous. He looks, he thinks, a little too old to be a high school student. And his sweater, thrown on over a white button-down shirt, is too much like a professor's clothing.

He glances at the label by the door to the science classroom as if out of habit. _C. Novak,_ it reads.

That must be him.

The students in the class all wear identical blank facial expressions as he walks into the room. It's clear they've already decided to ignore this class, whatever it is he teaches. Cas looks at the walls for some kind of sign. Equations, yes. Math? But there are rudimentary diagrams of concepts humans barely comprehend in their modern science. He could do a lot to improve their understanding of spacetime travel, if he had the time and the interest.

On the blackboard, in a messy scrawl he assumes is his own writing, is written Introductory Physics. Lovely. So he's teaching sixteen-year-olds how wormholes work, is he? If only he could spend time discussing parallel universes, since he's guessing that's where he is right now.

The front row, populated by the slackers who were almost late to class on the first day and therefore got the most obvious seats, has one standout: a girl whose v-neck shirt is making Castiel uncomfortable, sitting in such a way as to maximize the look of her chest as well as help her lean forward to gaze at Cas.

Wonderful. He checks the seating chart on his desk. Sera Humphris.

As he starts talking, bullshitting something about the test they would be taking today (he did have the foresight to look at his schedule for the day), he starts twisting the ring on his left hand absently. It's a new pressure, he still isn't used to it.

He turns to check that his class is still following along, and sees that Sera's hand is high in the air. "Question?" he asks, pointing his chalk at her.

"What's that ring on your finger?" she asks, shooting off another question before Cas has time to answer. "You're engaged? What's her name? When did you meet? How serious is it? Why'd she buy you a ring and not the other way around?"

The rest of his class is perking up. It's so gratifying to know they care more about his personal life than the practical applications of physics in interdimensional travel.

He sighs. "Yes, I'm engaged."

The whole class gazes at him expectantly, but he doesn't say anything. At last a stoner from the back says, "And... to who?"

The students all nod their heads, eager for the juicy details. He hopes they won't start asking about his sex life next.

He closes his eyes. "I'm willing to negotiate," he says. If time travel won't make them work hard, maybe bribery will. "Any student who earns an A on the test today, I'll write who I'm engaged to on their exam. There is a caveat," he warns them. "You cannot tell any student who didn't earn the answer."

They all stare up at him seriously.

"Any other questions?" he asks.

A few hands go up.

"About physics?" he clarifies.

Slowly, slightly ashamed, the hands go down.

When he hands back the tests, he holds back even as hands eagerly reach out to take them. "I just want to say," he begins. "This is the single highest average this class has had all semester." Over half the class was in the A range. Apparently gossip was a good motivator.

As each student gets their paper, he smirks in satisfaction as eyes go wide, jaws drop. Sera in the front row looks like she might actually cry; she only got a B, and it's clear she's desperate to know who the competition is.

The bell rings to signal the end of the day at last. Cas's students are out the door in moments. He groans and gathers up his papers, then heads out. The memories are starting to fill in at last; wine and candlelight, Dean on one knee.

He strolls down to Dean's room, but as he turns a corner into the English hallway, he sees a gaggle of his students pestering Dean at the door. Dean looks almost terrified by the adolescent tidal wave, clinging to his copies of Slaughterhouse-Five.

"Was it romantic?" one kid asks.

"You kissed him, right? You two totally kissed." That girl looks like she might explode.

"I can't believe my physics teacher and my AP Lit teacher are in love with each other," says Gary, one of Cas's top students. He looks completely baffled at the thought.

At last Dean manages to escape the enthusiastic students who apparently adore the two of them together. "We're leaving," he says, trying to sound gruff and annoyed but only managing to sound fond.

"You loved all that attention," Cas says once they're in the car.

Dean shakes his head, but he's smiling like a lovesick idiot. "I kinda did," he admits.

They've barely closed the door to their house when they're on the couch, giving each other lazy kisses and watching reruns of Master Chef. "You know what we should do," Dean says, in the way of his that tells Cas he's just had a horrible idea. "We should cook something for dinner. Like, a real meal. A nice meal."

"What was last night, exactly?" Fine dining wasn't either of their favorites, but Cas couldn't argue with the leftover lobster and garlic biscuits in the fridge.

"A proposal," Dean says dryly. "I mean, cooking. With the pots and pans, not just throwing frozen burgers on a grill."

"What do you propose?" Cas asks.

The meat sauce is a little burnt, the spaghetti a little undercooked, but it's delicious anyway. And at least, Cas thinks, you can't fuck up a salad. Dean's rendition of cheese bread leaves nothing to be desired, anyway, and the spaghetti is still romantic on the couch with their bare feet in each others' faces.

Cas can smell Dean's feet, and his fiance is smiling as Dr. Sexy, MD comes on, and there's tomato sauce on both their chins and their shirts are on the floor. They have a house, a home. And Castiel never wants this to end.

 


	11. Nurse!Cas AU

Gurneys rattle past Castiel as his coworkers ask questions as calmly as they can, under the circumstances. Hannah takes the next patient to be brought in, asking the routine questions as she guides his gurney to the next open room to be treated. Castiel is next, watching the door intently. He needs more coffee. The night shift is not worth it.

A moment later, another man is brought in, stripped down to briefs and a light undershirt. Cas takes control of the gurney and heads for the next available room to treat him. Fortunately, the burns on his arms look minor compared to some of the others, but smoke inhalation is his bigger concern.

Then he looks down at the man's face and groans. "Again?"

Dean Winchester, frequent flier in the emergency room, grins up at him in a daze. "Hey, doc, how'm I doing?"

Cas sighs. "Dean, we've been through this. I'm a nurse." He starts running through the questions; is Dean on any medication, does he use any drugs, and so on. Dean answers them in a bored voice, and it's no surprise.

"Mr. Winchester, do you realize this is the eighth time you've been brought to the emergency room in five months?"

Dean's wobbly smile widens, and he winks. "Guess I just can't stay away."

Once in the examination room, Castiel evaluates the severity of his burns. The triage nurse, Hester, has already done that, but some could have worsened. He applies salve to the burns one by one.

The patient flinches each time he rubs the cool salve on the burns. Castiel can see the scarring on his arms and even his neck, from previous burns.

He places his hands on Dean's chest once the salve is applied and he's changed his gloves. "I need you to breathe deep, and exhale slowly," he says. Dean does so without coughing, which is a good sign.

"You don't appear to be suffering any injury from smoke inhalation," Cas says, making a note on his clipboard.

Dean lays back. "How are the other burn patients doing?" he asks.

"I don't know," Cas says honestly. "What are you doing, that you come in with minor burns every few weeks?"  
Dean cracks a grin. "I'm a comedian," he says. "My comedy club does a weekly roast. Sometimes I'm lucky, and sometimes..." He gestures at the situation.

"Ha," Cas says, and makes a note that the patient thinks he's funny.

"Seriously, though," Dean says. "I'm a firefighter. I, um, I take more risks than most people do. I pulled seven people out of a burning building tonight, so sorry if I'm not at my best. I'm a little worn out."

"Where did your clothes go?" Cas asks.

Dean sighs. "I kinda got caught on a nail, and I couldn't move, so I just got out of the coat instead." He adds defensively, "I was carrying a six-year-old girl to her mother. I wasn't letting a nail get in the way."

"I wouldn't ask you to," Cas says softly.

He leaves Dean there, knowing he'll need a little more treatment for his burns; they're beginning to blister, and honestly, Cas wants to keep talking to him. There's something different about him. He's not like most of the people Cas knows – the doctors all think they're so high-and-mighty, playing God. Like Michael, the lead doctor in the burns unit. Even Hannah, for all she's Cas's friend, acts a little condescending to her patients. Maybe it's just the hospital, but Cas sees far too many entitled public servants in his line of work, too, people who think others should worship the ground they walked on because they put themselves in the line of fire or prosecute criminals.

Dean seems... more genuine. He doesn't act deserving of anything, doesn't demand special treatment. It's a welcome change from the pricks who Castiel deals with all too often.

He hands his notes to the secretary and informs her his patient just needs bandaging and observation for a few hours.

Hannah's in the break room, pouring a cup of coffee. "Dean's back," Cas says, trying to sound as though he doesn't care.

She sees right through him. "Not this again."

"He's a firefighter. Did you know that?"

"Please, not again."

"And I've never seen him without a shirt before. He's so..." He stops. He sounds too invested in his appearance. "He's very fit. I suppose it's from his work."

"I'm sure," Hannah murmurs without interest.

Cas pours himself a cup of coffee and sits. "Do you think he's going to be here again?"

Hannah doesn't even dignify him with a response.

When Cas returns to Dean's bed, to apply more medication to his burns, bandage them, and send him home, Dean's napping.

"Dean. Dean. _Dean."_ At last Dean opens his eyes and glares at him.

"I am _tired."_

"You can sleep when you go home, which is why I am here." He goes about removing Dean's bandages quickly, trying to make it fast and painless.

"Your bedside manner's kinda lacking," Dean quips, though he still sounds like he'd rather be sleeping.

"You should see my bedroom manner," Cas says without thinking. His blood runs cold. He's just made a fool of himself. He must look like a colossal idiot.

Dean snorts a laugh. "Maybe I should," he says. "What time are you off work?"

"I, um," Cas says, still searching for wherever he left his dignity. "It's past midnight, Dean. I'm done here when the new patients are settled for the night."

"Mmm, okay. Then I guess you'll just have to call me when you get the chance. Gimme your pen."

He writes his phone number on the back of Cas's hand, then starts to slide off the bed.

Cas puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him back down. "I still have to bandage your arms. You need to take off of work for a few weeks, until your burns heal. Maybe once you're healed, I'll call you."

Castiel doesn't have to wait that long. Dean convinces the receptionist to give him Cas's phone number and calls him the next day to ask him to dinner.

Dinner at Dean's friend's restaurant, Benny's Cajun Cooking, is fantastic, but it's the way Dean is with him, playful and happy and confident, that makes Cas fall in love with him again.

Maybe this will never have to end, he thinks dreamily after a wonderful (if cliched) second date at a theme park.

Maybe this can really last forever.

 

Dean stares at Cas. They've got him laying down now. Moving him hasn't changed anything; breaking his eye contact with the mirror was pointless. But at least he's not swaying like he's about to collapse anymore, and that's a load off Dean's shoulders.

Cas's eyes are closed now. He could almost be sleeping.

Dean wishes he would just wake up.

 


	12. Endverse!Castiel and Dean Smith AU

The bed is seductively warm. Each time Cas tries to lift his head, he feels it pulled by an unfathomable force back down to the soft pillow. It's probably gravity.

He rolls over slowly, half expecting to see Dean on the other side of the bed. He's not there. Of course not. They haven't even kissed yet in this world; maybe Dean as a firefighter is more shy than normal.

Castiel sits up, and for a moment his head spins. His room isn't how he remembers leaving it last night; someone's moved the wall and tipped the ceiling at an angle. The window is in the wrong spot.

So, he's moved on again. "Fan-fucking-tastic," he groans, and heaves himself out of bed.

His head still feels a little strange as he stumbles out into the living room. A scent that Cas is struggling to identify hangs around the sofa as he collapses on it. God, he's ready to die.

Gradually, the headache and bleariness ease, and with a clearer head, Castiel remembers why he'd had them in the first place.

It must be, what, five in the evening now? And he started smoking when Dean left for work this morning. He's betting he was asleep for six or seven hours.

Well, at least Dean will be home within the hour.

He isn't sure how good an idea it is to cook with the pot-taste still in his mouth, but damn it if he isn't going to try. He hauls down a recipe book and gets to work on the shiny chrome-lined kitchen set.

He shouldn't have tried to cook, he thinks in retrospect. He knows nothing about quinoa, and even less about kale and egg white and what the hell does 'gluten' even mean?

Maybe he's more stoned than he thought.

When Dean walks in, he wrinkles his nose at the vague smell of burnt eggs. "So, you were busy today," he says, but he doesn't sound too upset, which is good, because Cas has come up with an even better way to welcome Dean home.

"How was work?" Cas asks. He's thrown on a loose cotton v-neck and some jeans. It doesn't matter what he's wearing, so he didn't bother dressing up. He gets up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor to kiss Dean's cheek.

"Mr. Adler was a pain, as usual," Dean says. "You know, I get the feeling the guy doesn't like me."

Cas snickers. "No idea why," he purrs. "Anyone with half a brain can see how amazing you are."

"Are you angling for a BJ?" Dean laughs. "C'mon, now?"

Cas rolls his shoulders and smiles as they pop satisfyingly. "We can order in later," he whispers in Dean's ear. "I've waited for you all day. Let's take the weight off for a couple hours, yeah?"

Dean snorts. "You think you can keep it up for a couple hours?"

"With you in my bed? Easily." A part of Cas wonders where this smooth, sensual attitude is coming from, but he doesn't care enough to dampen it. It's nice, being able to draw Dean in like this. Knowing he'll be responsive.

Knowing he actually wants him back is a plus, too.

Dean hangs back when Cas leads him to their bedroom. "Which way do you wanna play this?" he asks.

Cas considers it. Neither of them are prepared, but that's half the fun anyway. And he's dying to know how it feels to have Dean's cock in his ass.

"I want you in me," he says, winking. "And I want you to tell me what to do for you."

"You sure you're ready for that?" Dean asks, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Dean likes to receive, and Cas loves to give. But Cas has been fantasizing about having Dean in him for ages now. Sometimes they weren't even in this dreamworld of his.

And Dean has never been comfortable with Cas telling him what to do, and Cas is happy to please him.

"Are you calling me reckless?" Cas asks. "I prefer trusting."

That, he knows, sends a shiver up Dean's spine. Dean told him once that he loves how completely Castiel trusts him to take care of him, and how honored he is that Cas gives him that trust.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Dean says, and Cas pulls him into the bedroom.

Dean sits on the bed, loosening his tie. Cas hesitates; he doesn't want to join him there quite yet. They should savor this, in case all Cas is going to get is one night with Dean. He wants it to be incredible.

The encouraging smile on Dean's face puts Cas at ease. "Take off your shirt," he says. Cas starts to pull it off, but the tiniest shake of Dean's head freezes him. "Slowly, so I can see it."

"A striptease, Dean?" Cas says, rolling his eyes.

"Don't sass me."

Cas snorts, but he doesn't say another word as he slowly wiggles out of his shirt. Once it's just a puddle of fabric on the floor, Dean says, "Now the jeans."

He rolls the jeans down slowly, carefully. The sharp inhale from Dean once the pants are down to his thighs is intoxicating; the swell of Cas's cock is obvious through his boxers. The jeans join the shirt on the floor.

"Come here," Dean tells him, and Cas does, sitting close beside him. Dean has been unbuttoning his shirt all the while, but his belt and his slacks are still on. "Kiss me while I finish getting my clothes off."

"Prick," Cas breathes fondly in his ear, and starts kissing Dean's neck. Technically, Dean never specified _where_ he wants Cas to kiss him, and Dean's neck is one of Cas's favorite places. He knows he's going to leave behind hickeys, marking Dean as his for all his snobby, uptight coworkers. Dean might berate him for it later, but in the moment, he's loving it too.

Dean finally gets his shirt off and fumbles with his belt until Cas shakes his head and unbuckles it himself. Dean's pants slide down his athletic legs, and Dean pulls Cas close into a full kiss, turning them so he lay on the bed with Cas on top of him as he sneaks his tongue into Cas's mouth.

Cas gazes down at him. Dean's face is so beautiful in the light from the nightstand lamp. Every freckle stands out in his tanned face, but there's no weathered look to his skin from years of hunting, no aches in his back from digging countless graves. Dean in this world takes care of his body, Dean in this world doesn't carry the weight of lives on his back like it's a coat he wears.

On impulse, Cas lowers himself and plants another kiss on Dean's lips.

Dean grins at him. "So beautiful, Cas," he says, and Cas shudders. It's bliss, to hear Dean say that.

Then Dean adds, "Take off my briefs, Cas."

Cas obeys with the reverence he once observed only for holy relics. But Dean is holy, in a way. He's the Righteous Man, even now.

"I want you to suck me," Dean murmurs to him. "But don't get me off, not yet."

Cas goes down on him with enthusiasm. Every stroke of his tongue on Dean's dick makes Dean's legs quiver, makes him gasp with pleasure. Dean tells him how to adjust his technique; _softer, yes, like that. God, Cas, you're so good, make me feel so good. Now take me deeper, yeah, yes, you're doing great. Fuck, you're amazing._

The moans Cas is making around Dean's cock make it even harder for Dean to speak. He's getting close, Cas can tell. It wouldn't take much to make him come now, but Dean said to hold back.

"...'kay," Dean says suddenly, sounding so reluctant to stop that Cas almost thinks he's going to tell him to bring him to orgasm now. "That's great, Cas, you can stop now."

With a whine of disappointment, Cas pulls away. A strand of saliva stretches from his lips to the tip of Dean's cock, and breaks.

"Turn over," Dean tells him, and Cas does, groaning as Dean moves on top of him.

A moment later, he feels Dean's hands on his hips. The itchy slide of Cas's boxers down his legs is almost titillating, telling him what's coming next.

Dean's lips suck at the head of his cock, and Cas can't think past how good it feels, how amazing to have Dean doing this for him. Then Dean pulls away, and Cas can't stop himself from raising his hips just a little, whimpering at the separation.

"Come on, baby," Dean says. "Be patient."  
_"Dean,"_ Cas mumbles, but it doesn't sound so much like his name as a plea for more.

"I'm gonna take care of you, okay? You're doing so good, don't stop now." Dean's soft, gentle encouragement makes it easier to wait through the long seconds as Dean rummages through the nightstand in search of lube.

"We're almost out," Dean comments as he slicks his fingers up. "Put that on the shopping list."

"Yes, your highness. Would you like that done now, or once you're done fingering me?"  
"What did I tell you about sass?" Dean asks with a grin, and Cas smirks.

"That you love it."

Dean's eyes sparkle. "Yeah, I do."

He guides Cas's legs apart and kneels between them, then slowly slides a single finger into his ass.

The cold wet of the lubricant inside him makes Cas want to kick his legs; it doesn't feel room temperature, though he knows it is. "Dean," he says again.

"Yeah?"

"It's cold."

Dean laughs. "No shit, Sherlock." He adds, "It'll get easier, I swear."

It takes time, but eventually Dean works up to a second finger, stretching Cas's hole and occasionally eliciting a moan, drawing various breathy gasps from Cas's lips whenever he's not making some sarcastic remark.

"Think you're ready?" Dean asks him.

"Yes," Cas says, but his voice is small. He's never... he has never done this before. It's only just hit him that this is a line he can't un-cross.

Dean presses a kiss to Cas's forehead and helps lift Cas's legs into a more comfortable position for fucking. He finishes applying lube to his cock, and then meets Cas's eyes. Cas nods, strengthening his resolve. It feels a little more like going into battle than consenting to sex, but Castiel might just be paranoid.

It's the oddest feeling Cas has ever had, but also one of the best. The rhythm of Dean's body against Cas is faster than Castiel thought it would be, but Dean seems to know already what to do to make it feel amazing. He follows a slow slide with a faster thrust, he keeps his hands on Cas's body and rubs circles into his skin with his thumbs as he takes him.

It's so much, and all at once, and Cas feels his own orgasm building. "Dean, I'm gonna come," he groans, and Dean shakes his head.

"Not yet."

"I doubt 'not yet' is an option on the table right now," Cas says urgently.

"Thought you said you wanted me to tell you what to do."

"Dean, _please,"_ he moans, but when push comes to shove, he doesn't let himself go. He wants so badly to give in, but Dean told him not to, and he has to listen. He wants to listen.

"Please," he breathes as Dean's thrusts picks up their pace. "Please, please, please, Dean, please, I need it, I need you, just, Dean –"

"Cas, just hang on a second –" And Dean's coming inside him, and it's such a strange sensation Cas almost loses focus on holding back his own orgasm. At last Dean whispers to him, "Go ahead."

He gasps when he comes, finally collapsing limp on the bed with Dean still laying on top of him.

For a while, they lay like that, too tired to move.

"I'm still hungry," Dean says at last.

"Order something. I need a shower," Cas says.

"I could come with you," Dean offers.

"So we can fuck and then take another shower?" Cas asks. "Just get some Chinese food. Whatever you want, babe. I'll eat it."

As warm water runs over him, washing him clean, Cas wonders how long this world will last before he's zapped into another realm. He's pretty sure they don't fuck like this every day, but he doesn't know if he has the stamina to do this all the time. Maybe if he were an angel, but that was complicated.

He leaves the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. Dean's already sitting on the bed, with a pint of ice cream in his hand and another one on Cas's side of the bed. "I just ran to the gas station," Dean says. "Today's my skip day anyway."

Cas smiles, and joins him on the bed.

So they wind up kissing away the ice cream taste in their mouths. Cas doesn't think anyone could blame them for that.

* * *

 

Dean opened his eyes as Sam walked into Cas's room. "Any luck?" he asks.

The hopeful look in Sam's eyes makes Dean sit up. "What is it?"

"I might have found something. Looks like if one of us crashes his party, we might be able to tell him it's not real and make him snap out of it."

"African dream root," Dean says, and it's a goddamn relief to say it. They've got a shot at saving Cas.

"I'm looking through the bunker's storeroom to see if they've got any, but their filing system is all out of whack. Check online, see if we can get rush order some here."

"Yeah," Dean says. He's trying not to look at Cas, lying there limp and almost lifeless. He's hanging on by a goddamn thread here, and they're running out of time.

 


	13. Pet Store AU

Deb, Gil, and Bubbles shoot to the surface of their tank as pungent flakes of food flutter down to the water. Rio and Randy, parakeets, chirp delightedly in the corner, knowing they're next in line for feeding.

Cas hums a song he's heard somewhere before. He thinks it might be 'Hey Jude,' but thinking of that song makes him think of Dean, singing off-key in the shower in the bunker. None of the Deans he's met here love that song the way Cas's Dean, the real Dean, does. Some know it, some like it, but none hold it quiet and close to his chest, keeping down the way it ties him to his mother like Cas's own Dean.

Dean, that Dean, probably doesn't miss him at all. After all, he has Sam. And his mother, now, too.

He doubts Dean is even wondering where he is.

Castiel stops humming. The fish don't appreciate his tunes. They never have.

Distantly, he wonders where Dean is in this world. It's been three days of working in this pet store, and nothing. Not even a postcard. All he knows is that Zachariah owns the pet store, and he hates the man's micromanaging even more now that he's fought against him in the Apocalypse.

Still, he likes the company of the animals. The guinea pigs adore him, and when no one is around, Cas often takes them out of their cage and holds them. They seem to know he's no ordinary human, and lie docile in his hands instead of panicking and trying to escape his grip.

He finishes feeding the fish and puts their food away, picking up the seed for the parakeets. Rio chirps again and flutters up against the gate of her cage impatiently.

Cas is scooping seed into the feed dish when the door crashes open, drowning out the bell that alerts him a customer has arrived. He finishes feeding the birds and locks the cage again, then turns to the noisy intruder. "How may I help –"

It's Dean, red-faced and flustered. "I need a dog," he says breathlessly. "Where are your dogs?"

Castiel can't help himself. He bursts out laughing.

Dean glares at him. "What's so funny?"

Cas somehow chokes out through his giggles, "Well, you hate dogs."

Dean freezes. "Do I know you?"

Fuck. "I mean, I can tell you're a cat person. But there's no hair on your clothes. I'm guessing apartment? Or allergy?" He knows Dean's allergic to cats, but he doesn't want to freak him out any more.

Dean smiles, relaxing. "Yeah, I kinda am. But listen, it's my brother's birthday tomorrow, and I need a dog for him."

"What kind of dog are you looking for?" Cas asks, trying to recover his professionalism.

"Uh..." Dean considers the question. "A big one?"

Cas tries very hard to suppress his snort of amusement. "Do you have a breed in mind?"

Dean nods confidently, then slowly shakes his head, shamefaced. "Look, can you just help me find him a dog? He loves dogs. I think he'll like anything."

"Let me take you to the back room," Cas says. He's sure Sam would like grown dogs as much as puppies, but they haven't had an adult dog in the store since he started working here. "The dogs live back there, mostly."

The kennels are too small, but he's not going to complain to Zachariah. He's too tightfisted to change anything.

"I think your brother might like one of these," Cas says, leading Dean to the kennel of young German Shepherds, freshly weaned. "German Shepherds grow to be big dogs, but they're friendly and smart, so the puppies are easier to train than other breeds."

Suddenly Cas hears a meowing from nearby. "Damn it," he says. "Just a second, I think Whiskey is stuck again."

"Stuck?" Dean asks absently, but he's busy staring at the puppies with interest.

Cas returns a moment later with a orange-gold cat in his arms. "This is Whiskey," he says. "You can hold him, if you want. He's a Siberian, so you may not have a reaction to him."

Dean takes Whiskey willingly, smiling as the cat nuzzles at his face. "He only has one eye?"

"He was born that way, as far as we can tell," Cas says. "He's been here a long time. No one wants a one-eyed cat when they can have a perfectly healthy kitten."

"That blows," Dean says.

"It does."

Dean lets Whiskey paw at his face playfully as he gazes down at the three German Shepherds. "I like that one," he says, pointing. "Does he have a name?"

"She does," Cas says. "Her name is Lily."

"Lily," Dean says. "I bet Sam and Jess would love her."

"She has most of her shots, but she'll need to be spayed," Cas tells him.

Dean shrugs. "I'll let them handle the details," he says. "I'll take her."

"You might want a small kennel to carry her, and some food for today and tomorrow," Cas adds. "As well as a leash."

Dean waves a hand. "Yeah, just ring it up. Her gear can be part of the gift."

Cas reaches out to take Whiskey back, and Dean shies away, hesitating, before he realizes what he's doing and hands him over.

Their fingertips brush as Cas takes the cat away gently. Dean looks up at him, startled, and their eyes meet. "I, um, I'm Dean, by the way," Dean says. Cas wants to tell him he already knows, but that would scare him off. He knows this. "And you are?"

"Castiel." He thinks about that for a moment. "Cas. You can call me Cas, if you want."

He presses his face into Whiskey's fur as he carries him to his own cage. He's been thinking of adopting the poor guy anyway, but now that he's seen Dean take to him so well, he might not have to.

Sure enough, about a week later Dean's back.

He leans on the counter as Cas strokes a guinea pig serenely. "So, Sam and Jess love the dog," he begins, his voice a little shaky. Like he's nervous. "They really liked the name Lily, so they're keeping that."

Cas nods. "That's good," he says. "The next step is teaching her how to behave, so she acts how they want her to."

Dean looks like he's trying to come to a decision. At last he says, "Can I see Whiskey again?"

The two of them head to the back again, to hunt down Whiskey. Since he's so laid-back, Cas lets him wander around the kennels on his own. At last, Cas lures him out from behind a stack of crates with a treat. Dean snickers at his coaxing and enticing as Whiskey slowly creeps out, poised like he's hunting Cas's little Meow Mix treat.

"What do you usually need to take care of a cat?" Dean asks.

Cas rattles off the usual list. "Litter, litterbox, dishes, food. Cat toys are optional. A box will do just as well as a fancy cat house. Scratching post, often."

"Set me up with the works," Dean says. "I think I want to get him." He strokes a hand through Whiskey's long gold fur.

They spend another twenty minutes carefully selecting precisely what Whiskey 'deserves,' according to Dean. He's buying the highest quality cat food, the most spacious cat kennel, and so on. That cat is going to be spoiled, living with Dean, and Cas is going to miss him and his soft fur.

Cas rings up Dean's purchases, and Whiskey stands on the counter, meowing as if he's impatient to move on and go home with Dean.

"Traitor," Cas says to the cat, looking him in the eye and glaring.

Dean snorts. "Why d'you say that?"

"He's ditching me to be with you," Cas says.

"Well," Dean says, "How does this sound? You give me your number, and then I call and invite you over, we do a little smooth talking, and Whiskey here gets his Fancy Feast while we have a nice dinner together?"

Cas looks up at the ceiling teasingly. "Well, I don't know," he says. "Give me a call tonight, and we'll discuss it then." He writes his name and phone number on the back of Dean's receipt.

He waits until Dean has left with Whiskey and his new cat supplies before closing his eyes, sinking into a chair, and sighing.

Castiel can't wait for Dean's call.

Their date that Friday is blissful. Dean is a gentleman, and he doesn't mind that Cas touches Whiskey more than he touches him – until the jealousy gets to be too much, the tension is too much, and they start making out on Dean's rickety couch.

Dean's lips taste like butter. It's the most wonderful thing in the world. They're kissing, and Dean is practically wrapped around him and Whiskey is wriggling between them, trying to squeeze into the slim space between their bodies.

 

 


	14. Old Married Couple AU

Castiel opens his eyes slowly. Soft fur rubs up against his face, meowing at him. The cat stares at him with wide blue eyes, the only thing he can make out clearly. A few feet from him, everything turns to a fuzzy mess. Cas sits up, then gets to his feet with a yawn. He feels a strange, foreign ache in his muscles. He must have been exercising. Human muscle takes longer to knit together after hard work than they do with an angel's grace.

Cas picks up the cat and walks to the door. The house is cool, the lights are out, but he can see sun streaming through the windows in the stairwell. He carries the cat downstairs, his bare feet making a soft shushing sound on the carpet. He can hear someone humming in the kitchen.

And there's Dean. He might be struggling to see (is he high again? Is that it?), but it's easy to recognize Dean's body, Dean's posture, even with his back turned as he washes dishes.

The cat wriggles out of Cas's arms. "Dean? Where's Whiskey?" That's the last cat he remembers, isn't it? He's having trouble with the memories, but as if they're just out of reach, not missing altogether.

Dean turns around. "Are you doing okay?" he asks, and Cas's heart skips faster. His hair is grey, only a hint of the old gold-brown left in it, and around his eyes and mouth are lines of age.

"You're beautiful," Cas says softly.

He hears Dean's laugh, but it's a little muffled, and he shakes his head. "You forgot to put your glasses on again, silly," he says.

Cas refuses to accept that. "It's true. You are _beautiful,_ every inch of you. And I..." He understands now, why he can't see and feels so tired even after sleep. "I am _so lucky_ to have spent my whole life with you." He feels the wet at the corner of his eyes, and he sniffles as he tries furiously to wipe the tears away.

"Oh, God. Cas, don't do this." Dean's trying to put on a straight face, but Cas can tell he's on the verge of tears as well. "Fuck, okay. Just sit down on the couch. I'll run and get your glasses and we can watch Dr. Sexy together. Reruns start at ten-thirty."

Cas smiles, his face still wet, and curls up on their faded couch.

For a while, they sit there, curled up together as Dr. Sexy blatantly crosses the subfields of surgery and medicine, going from a novel brain transplant to surgically removing a tumor from a spleen.

Dean starts to kiss Cas's neck gently; he is unbothered by the folds of wrinkles, the loose skin of age, that are there. It feels like half a second, and it feels like eternity. Cas should know, he's been through both.

Then Dean pecks him on the lips and stands up slowly, stretching like a man who aches to the very bones. Which must be true, Castiel thinks.

"I'm gonna go make lunch, okay, babe?" Dean asks.  
Castiel nods, and stands up as Dean leaves the room. There are photographs on the mantle that he has to see.

The first one he picks up is of the two of them on their wedding day; Dean in a black suit, Cas in white. A lump rises in Cas's throat as he looks to the next picture; they're holding hands with a young girl and swinging her on a path in a park. Her face is lit with happiness. "Mary," he breathes.

The next photograph is of Mary as an adult, with a young man Cas knows must be her husband, and two little boys looking deeply uncomfortable in the dress clothes they wear for the picture. There's Dean and Cas with Sam, sitting on the porch swing by the front door. Sam's hair is now almost white, and he's almost as wrinkly as Dean. Cas can't even imagine it, somehow; after all this time, after Apocalypses and Leviathans and God's own sister, they've achieved some sort of miracle. They've grown old.

Cas wanders into the kitchen a little while later, after collecting himself. He nuzzles Dean from behind, smiling when Dean makes some pithy sexual quip. "I'm going out to work in the garden," he murmurs, and he gathers up gardening supplies from a heap by the front door.

The sun isn't too hot, and his hat shields the worst of it anyway. The weeds are at it again, he thinks, constantly creeping up and trying to strangle the good, strong flowers and vegetables he's been cultivating on the lawn.

He gets down on his knees and starts to yank the weeds up by the roots, stacking them in a pile and patting down the loose dirt again.

He's sure Dean must be nearly done with lunch when he hears a voice from the street ahead.

"Cas?"

He hears it, but he doesn't want to believe it. The voice is too young, too full of life and vitality and worry, to be the Sam he knows in this world.

And if he's not...

A pair of feet halt right in front of him, the legs only visible to mid-calf before the brim of Cas's hat blocks them out. Cas stands slowly. He doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to know.

Sam is standing there, young and tall and proud. "Cas," he says, and the shock in his face tells Castiel everything he needs to hear.

But Sam tells him anyway. "We've been trying to get through to you," he says. "The mirror in the bunker, it did something to you. Kinda like a djinn dream, only this doesn't grant a wish. It shows you your deepest desire." He looks around. "So. Your, um, your deepest desire is 'old man in Suburbia,' huh?"

Cas smiles bitterly. He should have known it was something like that. Here he thought it was a gift, perhaps from an angel or a god who wanted to give him happiness.

"I would invite you in," he says, "but I doubt I should. You would upset Dean."

"Cas," Sam says, with unfathomable patience, "none of this is real. It's a fantasy, a curse. It's killing you. Once your vessel dies, you're stuck in here forever. We don't even know if you'd die yourself."

"Would that really be so bad?" Cas asks him. "Look at me, Sam. I've known it wasn't real for some time now. Why – why would I leave, when I am _finally_ happy? When I am finally welcome as myself? Not as, as an angel. Or as a hunter. As a..." As a friend, as family, as the love of Dean's life.

"But it's not even real. How can you be happy knowing that?"

"It's easier than you think," Cas says, and even he is surprised by the chilly tone in his voice. "Here, I don't have to think about missing Heaven. I don't have to think about the end of the world, or fearing for your life, or Dean's life. I'm not haunted by my damaged grace, because in this life, I never had it in the first place."

He turns to go inside, but Sam follows him, standing in the doorway. "I can't let him see you," Cas says in a whisper. "Please, Sam, just go. Leave me." Castiel sighs, and adds, "It's a different life every few days or weeks. I've been a low-paid worker in a coffeeshop, I have been a con artist and a beekeeper, and Sam, please, just let me be happy with Dean in this life. If he sees you, I might lose this life together before it's even begun."

"Cas, you'll waste away if you stay." Sam grabs his shoulder and pulls him back outside. "You're chasing a fantasy. It's not real. Whatever it is you're doing here, whatever you think he feels for you in this world, it's not _real_."

Castiel feels his entire body go suddenly, completely cold. His head is burning with clarity. How can Sam say that? If he had another chance to live with Jessica, if he could have the life he always dreamed of, would he refuse it?

When he takes his swing, his fist collides with Sam's cheekbone, and he thinks it hurts him more than it does Sam.

He closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. Then he exhales, a long, desperate sigh. "You're right," he says. "I just... I need to say goodbye to him. Please let me say goodbye." He sounds like a child, he thinks from some part of him that is distant and unable to process what's happening.

Sam lets him go, and doesn't follow him inside when Cas goes in.

Instead, he walks around back, through the gate in the backyard fence.

A grey tabby cat sits on the windowsill. Sam can just see Dean's face, aged and freckled and still vividly alive. Then there's Cas, appearing at his side in the window. He presses his face into Dean's neck, and Sam has the distinct sense that he's seeing something more private than even sex. Dean turns around, and kisses Cas like this is the end of the world.

When they pull apart, Cas's face is streaked with tears. After a moment of hesitation, he strokes the cat on the windowsill. It presses its face to his palm, and the world disappears.

 

 


	15. Reality

For a brief moment when Cas's eyes flicker open, he almost believes he's woken up to another life, another world. That when he said goodbye to Dean, the switch was flipped and he was dropped into the next fantasy in line.

A glance around the room, in the familiar concrete and tile of the Men of Letters bunker, is enough to drag him back to reality.

"Are you okay?" Cas feels a hand on his shoulder and he wants to roll over and sob, but that's another part of him thinking, the part that spent days and weeks with Dean in bliss. He can't afford to show that side of him to Dean.

"I'm fine," he lies. His body needs work. It's clear he's been wasting away for some time now, with his stomach clawing at him like a starved cat and his body sore and aching.

Dean gets up. Cas assumes he's leaving to check on Sam, since the stress in his muscles indicates he's worried.

Before Dean is out the door, Sam meets him there. "He's awake," Sam says, relief in his voice when he sees Cas sitting up. He's pale as a ghost, and Sam would know, but he's alive, and that's something.

He really needs to talk to Cas, before this gets out of hand. He won't say a thing to Dean unless Cas gives him the go-ahead, it's not his to say.

Dean eases past him, and Sam follows.

A hammer makes short work of the mirror. For something so powerful, Sam's surprised at how easily it shatters. Dean's not even breaking a sweat when he drops the hammer and grabs a container of salt.

"Isn't this a little overkill?" Sam asks as Dean dumps salt over the pieces of glass.

"Nope." The gasoline comes next.

When Dean sets the glass shards on fire, Sam has to wonder if there's a more to his anger than he thought.

Dean walks with Sam back to Cas's room, but Sam stops him at the door.

"I need to talk to him alone," he says.

"What, was he getting drugged-up and banging hookers?" Dean grabs his shoulder in mock-seriousness. "Do we need to have an intervention?" he asks sarcastically.

"Okay, you know what? You can fuck off," Sam tells him. Dean rolls his eyes and stalks off.

Sam knocks gently on the door. "Cas? Can I, uh, can I talk to you?" he asks.

He hears the lock click, and Cas opens the door. "Sam. Of course, you can come in."

Cas gazes at him, and Sam thinks his heart might be breaking because he's never seen Cas like this before, with red-rimmed, teary eyes and a terrified expression.

"Did you say anything to Dean?" Cas asks quietly. He paces back to the bed and collapses on it, lying down like the weight of his own body is too much for him.

Sam shakes his head. "I thought you would want to –"

"Don't." Cas sits up and faces him. The tears are dripping down his cheeks now, but Cas is pretending they're not there. "I don't want him to know."

"Cas, maybe he –"

"No." Cas smiles wetly. "Sam, he tattooed the day we met on his arm. He brought me on wonderful dates. He made me dinner, he flirted with me over coffee, he made love to me and he kissed me and... and I don't care that none of it was real, because it's more than I'll ever have here. Here, I'm useless. I'm hopeless. He doesn't love me. And you know it. If he loved me, he wouldn't have thrown me out when I was human and alone."

Castiel turns away. "Can't you see it? With all the infinite universes, all the possible worlds there had to be one where he doesn't love me back." He closes his eyes. He can feel the tears falling, but he can't seem to will them to stop. His voice is almost a whisper. "I suppose we're just... not in the stars."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. Cas sounds totally, utterly defeated.

"I won't breathe a word to him," Sam tells him.

He backs up and out of the room, closing the door behind him. When he turns he sees Dean there, listening to every word.

"How much did you hear?" Sam asks, careful not to make it sound like anything important.

"Enough," Dean says, low and hoarse.

Sam stops Dean before he can walk into the room. "Don't – don't step on his heart, okay? It's broken enough as it is."

Cas is about to turn over and cry while he has the chance when the door swings open. He sits up, praying that Dean won't recognize the tear tracks on his face.

"Hello, Dean," he says, trying to cling to some small scrap of normalcy.

Dean's stands there, and all the color has drained out of his face. "Cas," he says.

A sinking sensation starts in Cas's intestines, and slowly starts to drag down his stomach, his liver, and his heart along with it. Dean knows. Cas can tell that with absolute certainty that against all his hopes, Dean knows. And this is where it all comes down around him.

Dean shifts around, from one foot to the other, and then the pallor in his face flushes pink and he's gone before Cas can say a word to apologize.

He's violated Dean's personal space. If Dean knows that Cas is in love with him, then he'll be thinking about every time they've been alone together. He'll be wondering how Cas has been thinking of him this entire time, thinking that Cas has been standing close to him and watching him sleep, not out of a misunderstanding and his foreignness to human customs of privacy, but because he's in love and doesn't know what to do with it.

And Cas realizes how creepy Dean will think it is.

He has to leave, before Dean can throw him out. He has to go. If he leaves now, maybe the next time he's needed for a mission, Dean will have forgiven him.

He stands, and he hates himself for feeling weak and dizzy, but his grace isn't done repairing the damage the mirror did to his body. Cas finds his coat – someone removed it when he was unconscious – and slips into it. He can't let Dean see him leave, either, he thinks, and for the first time in a very long time, he turns invisible.

Dean doesn't know Cas has even left his room until he hears the clatter of pans in the kitchen. He skids into the room, half afraid that some jinxed teakettle's got him under its spell now, but no. For a second, the room is empty, and then Cas materializes out of nowhere, visible once more.

"Don't you leave me," Dean snaps, harsher than he meant to be. "Not you. Don't you do that."

Castiel steels himself for the inevitable. It was cowardly, he thinks. Trying to run when he deserves whatever Dean has to say to him.

"I understand," he says before Dean can get out another word. "Before you say anything, you have to know, I'm leaving. You don't have to discuss this if... if you don't want to." He's so desperate he considers a prayer to his father, if he's listening, to beg that Dean will just tell him to get out, and leave it there.

Dean shakes his head. "You're not – Don't leave. We have to talk about this, you can't walk out and avoid me."

Cas lifts his chin. If he's going to be told he's an abomination for his feelings, as his angelic brethren will, then he should at least have the decency to face it properly.

Dean takes a deep breath. "I need you," he says. "And I'm never throwing you out of here again. I won't let you feel useless or unloved, because you're not. And..." God damn it, he was choking up. "And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter what the stars say."

Cas stares at him. "You don't mean that."  
"I do, Cas. I'm not trying to fuck with you, man. Maybe, just maybe, I actually give a shit about you. And I need you to know you mean as much to me as Sam does. But I don't need you like I need Sam, and I should've told you that a long time ago. I need you in a whole other way, and it is just as important."

Dean doesn't kiss him that night. Dean holds him close on the bed, wrapping his arms around Cas like a reminder that neither of them are going anywhere this time. This time, it doesn't have to end.

 


End file.
